


Clockwork

by AKMars



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Romance, Steampunk, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKMars/pseuds/AKMars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, Harold Finch offers John Reese the 'chance to be there in time'....what if he meant that literally?</p>
<p>Thanks to some wonderful photomanips of Finch & Reese made for me as part of an LJ gift exchange, this idea for 'PoI' set in Victorian England has been rattling around in my brain for some time.</p>
<p>The fact that it has finally forced its way out of my psyche and begun being set to word processor is due to kmmerc's wonderful historical works inspiring me.  Kmmerc, thank you!  Hopefully it will fly and if not, at least I will have exorcised a plot-bunny demon and maybe Sir Hareington will leave me alone for awhile.</p>
<p>P.S.--Sorry if Reese’s cockney dialect sounds a bit contrived.  I like writing phonetically when I do ‘accents’.  I apologize if it becomes irritating to decipher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Title: Clockwork  
Chapter I: Mainspring  
Rating: T to NC-17 (for violence and sexual situations in later chapters)  
Genre: Adventure, AU, Steampunk, Slash, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, Nathan Ingram, Lionel Fusco  
Pairing: Finch/Ingram, Finch/Reese

NOTES: This is the beginning of a larger work that I have on the backburner. It’s debut will have to wait until the conclusion of ‘Natural Inclinations’ and 'FCIP' both of which are winding down, if you’ll pardon the jest. 

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

_Camden Town proper was a noisy, crowded, dirty place. More so than the rest of London and that was saying something; albeit not complimentary. Most of its inhabitants were like their community in that regard; poor, miserable and supremely uninterested in what the next house over was doing. Times were hard for everyone and it was enough to make sure that yourself and your loved ones were fed and sheltered to care if your neighbor was in need._

It was through this throng of coster-mongers, labourers, loiterers and drunks that a man wound his way. He was like many of the other East End men in regards to his dress and manner of carriage but he was taller than the majority. His height would have made him stand out if it weren't for the air of menace he projected. Most folk turned away automatically from the cloud of sullen anger surrounding him. He was left alone and preferred it that way.

His walking boots were well-worn; dirt caked in the creases over their toes and so grimy that you couldn’t be sure if the leather had been brown or black originally. His trousers were dark gray and just a touch too short; the woolen fabric still too sturdy warrant disposing of them yet. His shirt was of faded red and white striped muslin and a black wool coat framed his shoulders. A brown tweed cloth cap was pulled low over his eyes, hiding his gaze from passers-by. He was lean but not skinny. That he could look out for himself and often did was obvious to the casual observer.

What was not was the aching tiredness the man carried in his soul. Jonathan Reese had seen enough evil and perfidy to drown the optimism of a hundred men. He had immigrated to London to escape the demons of his past and had remade himself into a common jack of all trades; blending with the thousands of other cockneys that swarmed like roaches all over the East End of the great city.

The tall man disengaged from the foot-traffic and made his way over to a disreputable looking rooming house. Reese climbed three flights of rickety stairs; turning down a short hallway to the last door at its end. _Home sweet home, or something like._ A grim smirk twisted his lips as he turned his key in the lock and stepped inside. Closing the door behind him, he registered his shadow on its wooden surface and spun around; fists raised to fight off an apparent burglar. 

A short, slender man; gentleman to judge by the cut of his clothes, stood by the small round table in the centre of the room. His stick and gloves rested on the warped wooden surface of the elderly piece of furniture and he waited with an air of calm politeness...almost as if he expected the cockney to perform introductions.

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

"Oo the bloody 'ell are you and wotcher doin' in moi rooms?!" 

That Reese was puzzled and angry was obvious but Finch deduced that the taller man considered him no threat... _and rightly so._ , he thought. “Allow me to introduce myself, Mr. Reese. You may call me Mr. Finch.” 

The older man took off his top hat and bowed over it. Angry as Jonathan was he almost laughed at being greeted as an equal by this well-dressed gentleman. _Well-dressed? Damn dandified peacock is more like it._ “So, ‘ow you know moi name, guv’nor?”

“I’ve been watching you for some time now, Mr. Reese. Long enough to know that you were once a soldier and saw your fair share of active service. I also know that you possess certain skills....skills that I value highly and will pay well for the use of.”

The tall man’s eyes raked over Finch once again, their gaze cold and mocking. “An’ ow could oi be of any use t’loiks o’ you? Wot bizness you in, mate?” 

" _Time_ , Mr. Reese. The business of time." the quixotic looking figure who had called on him, turned to regard the taller man.

“Wot the ‘ell?” Jonathan sat down hard in his only chair, surprise getting the better of him for the moment.

"What if time became one's ally?" The pale eyes glinted now behind the oval lenses his visitor wore. "A force that could be harnessed to do one's bidding....to influence the outcome of certain events...to prevent tragedies?" 

Finch strode over to Reese, looking earnestly into the younger man’s eyes. “I need someone with your abilities to help me do just that... _to change time_.”

The small man frowned as Reese laughed in his face. "Oi'll tell you wot I think, guv'nor." He stood up and peered down at the stranger. 

"Oi think you're a rich toff 'oos read too many fairy stories...That pr'aps a bit o' time in Bedlam would 'elp you more than I could." 

Reese's eyes narrowed and 'Mr. Finch' hobbled a step back from the menace he now saw in their depths. "But mostly, oi think if you follow me again, your friends'll foind you swimmin' in the Thames..." a knife glinted in the cockney's hand.

"Get out... _now_."

His visitor's eyes shifted from the knife to Reese's own grim expression. Without uttering another word, the small man accorded him another bow. He turned and limped out the door...Reese listened to the uneven tap of his cane on the stairs until at last the street door opened and closed behind him.

The cockney returned the knife to its hidden sheath on his arm and dropped his 'East End' persona. He moved to his window and, keeping hidden in the shadows, peered down. 'Mr. Finch' stood on the rooming-house doorstep for a moment; looking up and down the street as if bewildered as to what he should do next.

At last the little man limped up the sidewalk, the set of his shoulders radiating frustration to his unseen watcher. Jonathan kept his eyes on the charcoal gray top hat until it disappeared around a corner; then he began throwing what few belongings he had into a small carpetbag.

He hated to leave this building...its location and off-street entrance had suited his requirements admirably. But...if he'd been found once, he could be again. And one who had survived as long as he had; in the circumstances he had, learned early that only caution and vigilance would keep him in that state.

Stepping out into the hallway, Reese listened for a moment then made his way to the opposite end of his floor. 

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**


	2. Winding Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A watch...represents one of the highest mechanical achievements of mankind.”

Title: Clockwork  
Chapter II: Winding Up  
Rating: T to NC-17 (for violence and sexual situations in later chapters)  
Genre: Adventure, AU, Steampunk, Slash, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, Nathan Ingram, Lionel Fusco  
Pairing: Finch/Ingram, Finch/Reese  
Word Count: 2900

 

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

_Plover House, Hyde Park_

"Welcome home, sir." 

Competent hands took custody of the top hat and gloves, allocating them to their proper places before relieving Finch of his great-coat.

"Thank you Jimson."

The valet's lips thinned at the weariness in the older man's voice. "Tea will be waiting in the study, if you'd care to change, sir."

"Very good. I shall be there in a moment."

"Yes sir."

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

A short time later the man known as Harold Copernicus Finch was ensconced in his favorite wingback chair before a roaring fire. A pot of the green tea he preferred over other varieties stood ready at his elbow, next to a plate of watercress and salmon sandwiches. Jimson had positioned another table at his opposite arm, with several of the books he was currently reading on it for him to choose from.

He reveled in his servant's unobtrusive efficiency; knowing that the valet would appear at once if summoned by the bell-pull. Harold felt fortunate to have secured Rob Jimson from the domestic’s previous situation. Finch was the recipient of Jimson’s exemplary service first while visiting the estate of a business acquaintance. 

_The servant had been assigned to him for the duration of Harold’s stay and while he suspected his associate in the beginning of attempting to discomfit him; the valet had performed all assigned duties above and beyond Finch’s expectations. Indeed Rob had, within a matter of hours, begun to anticipate the visitor’s needs and showed an intuitive respect for Finch’s privacy._

_As for the valet, Rob Jimson had been pleased to serve the aristocrat. Lord Finch was refreshingly respectful of all the servants, regardless of station and appreciative of the valet’s attention to his wants. When Harold had inquired as to whether or not Jimson might be interested in a change of employers, the valet had indicated the possibility would not be dismissed out of hand. A month later Rob Jimson was officially employed in Finch’s London townhouse. A mutually agreeable situation for both master and servant._

_Harold now reaped the rewards of his 'head-hunting'. In addition to being his valet, Jimson also tidied Finch's bedroom and workrooms and was the only person besides Harold himself to set foot in them. The downstairs portion of the house received a thorough cleaning once a week from Mrs. Callahan's competent staff. He only interacted with her once a month to tender her wages and that suited both parties well._

_Martha Callahan resigned her previous position due to a mistress, who had never cleaned anything a day in her life, insisting on instructing her in the proper execution of her duties. Lord Finch knew better. He hired the woman to clean and trusted her to do so. That his bachelor's abode was more immaculate than most upper class London homes as a result was her repayment of his confidence._

_The small amount of cooking the aristocrat required was also easily handled by Jimson. Part of any proper valet's training included instructions on the preparation of simple dishes; coffee, tea and spirits; as well as 'traveling foods'. One's employer could be hungry at any hour after all. The nature of Finch's work made this a daily reality for Jimson._

Harold Finch had never felt more content with his domestic situation than at the present moment. He needed complete concentration to wrestle with the conundrum Mr. Reese had presented him. A house full of noisy, chattering servants; a histrionic spouse and screaming children would have driven him to distraction any time, let alone now. He settled back into his chair, letting blessed silence wrap him up in its comforting embrace. 

Finch closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander back to his conversation with the low-born cockney. He felt his cheeks flush as he recalled how the taller man had regarded him with scorn. _Rich...soft...useless..._ the blue eyes had all but screamed their loathing of the West End aristocrat. _Just as I'm sure he views all of my class._ The recluse frowned, his brows knitting as he worried away at his problem.

_I must find a way to convince him. He will require absolute proof my claims are valid. To do that I have to...._ Harold's eyes snapped open. It was....irregular to be sure but in the deepest part of him, Finch knew that Reese was the right man, the _only_ man who could assist him. The agent's skills would be invaluable and if it took extreme measures to convince him of that fact then that is how things had to be.

Harold would have to tread carefully...tampering with the temporal flow in even the smallest of degrees was tricky at best. At worst, it was ungodly dangerous. He had a miniscule window of opportunity to work with. Finch would have to gauge his arrival to the millisecond. It had to be _after_ his conversation with the agent yet preferably within a half-minute of his departure from the cockney’s chambers. 

The peer didn't doubt that as soon he’d left the building, John Reese had abandoned his den for a new one. God knew Harold would have in his place. But, if Finch’s plan worked...if Reese could be persuaded to assist him... _that would be worth any risk. Without his help I cannot do this work and without the work I'm...nothing._

Finch stared into the fire, chilled by this realization. The dancing flames drew memories from him that the recluse had buried deep within his soul. Pain flooded through him again, just as fresh and sharp as it felt two years ago when Nathan was taken. Brilliant, volatile, eccentric Nathan...his partner, his very _life_.

_The tall, blond man had immigrated from Germany. Descended from a long line of Austrian and Swiss precision watchmakers, Nathan Ingram had come to Harold’s attention when he was seeking a craftsman to help bring his Magnum Opus into being. Someone who could take his technical drawings and descriptions and turn them into functioning machinery. Nathan had proved not only able but perfectly suited to the task._

_Finch explained his theories and tests; laid out the rationale behind his desire to step outside the boundaries of order, all the while allowing the watchmaker to examine his sketches and notes. Ingram was intrigued by his endeavor and agreed at once to undertake the challenge._

_As time passed, the two men grew to be close friends, closer than Finch would have thought possible. Nathan had always been a tactile person...the aristocrat assumed it came from the watchmaker's natural skill with his hands. He'd never dreamed that the handsome giant would want him but as the construction of their device came to a close; Finch realized that he wanted Nathan just as much in return._

_Harold still recalled their inaugural ‘journey’ when the Machine was at last complete. From opposite ends of the room the partners had locked eyes and declaimed “the British Museum”. Both men had begun laughing as they calibrated the chronometer of the Machine. Without discussing it, they knew the date and time to strive for...three days previously at eleven forty-seven p.m.; location the hall of antiquities. Where and when better to stage an event than the evening before the unveiling of a new exhibit? Especially when that exhibit was 'Timekeeping Through the Ages'._

_It was after their successful return that they made love for the first time; the heady rush of triumph leading to the physical cementing of their union. Harold had never experienced such a closeness with anyone before in his life. From that night on they had become inseparable. Finch had initially been worried at how the change would be received by Jimson but the valet, who had liked Nathan from the outset, just gave the aristocrat a nod and inquired if Mr. Ingram’s things should be moved to Finch’s suite._

Who could have predicted that within three months their 'little creation' would pull the two men headlong into a raging storm of deceit and jeopardy. Another month later saw Nathan gone; with Harold lying seriously wounded in hospital, his body and life irrevocably shattered. The recluse closed his eyes, feeling moisture prick at the corners. _Oh Nathan....if only we’d known._

Harold took several deep, settling breaths; willing his emotions back under control. Just as he was picking up his cup to drink, he heard the quiet tread of footsteps crossing the study carpet. Lord Finch looked up into the somber hazel eyes of his valet. The servant’s head bobbed in apology.

“Excuse me for disturbing you Sir but will you be wanting the main workroom readied?”

Finch would have sworn Jimson was psychic but he stubbornly refused to believe in such arrant nonsense. He took the skill at face value as being part of a good servant’s particular talent for reading their master.

“Yes Jimson. Please prepare everything as usual for an ’event’.”

“Very good, sir.” Rob gave a half-bow and turned to go.

Harold watched for a moment before calling out on impulse.

“Jimson?”

The valet stopped at once. “Sir?”

“Are you...content here?”

Jimson’s expression remained carefully neutral, although one brow raised a fraction gave away the servant’s confusion. _“Sir?”_

Finch persisted. “Are you happy, in regards to your duties?”

The valet eyed Lord Finch as if in fear for his mental state. “Happy sir? Of course. I have never been more content with any position in my life M’lord.”

A sudden thought crossed Jimson’s mind and the servant swallowed, a trace of fear cracking the valet’s normally calm facade. “Is my lord displeased with-”

Harold waved a hand in negation. Jimson took a deep breath, reassured by Finch’s firm response. “Never. Your service and presence are invaluable Jimson...I merely wanted to be certain you wished it to continue.”

“May I speak candidly, M'lord?”

“Always...”

The valet took a deep breath, wanting to choose the proper words. “Since the time I was first given the task of serving you in my former house, Sir I felt a...sense, if you will permit me to say so, of... _rightness_ that I never had previously." Rob paused, considering. "I cannot think of any household or personage I should rather seek to be employed by." 

The hazel eyes were now filled with a calm certainty. "I will remain here as long as you wish me to, Lord Finch."

The recluse felt a small portion of his sadness ease. His valet had been a steadying and competent fixture in Finch's life for almost seven years now; never once betraying the aristocrat's trust or privacy. Jimson had been the filter between Harold and the world at large and Finch preferred things that way.

"Duly noted Jimson and thank you."

The valet half-bowed again and left the peer alone with his thoughts. Harold relaxed more as he began to eat. He knew that when he ascended to the workroom in an hour, all the preparations for his next encounter with the argumentative cockney would be complete.

 **ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

As he'd predicted, Harold found everything in order for the execution of his plans. Jimson assisted him into an oilskin coat that matched the valet's own. Jimson stood calmly by as Finch double-checked every detail. The valet understood the dangers inherent in the recluse's work, which necessitated the genius' added caution.

The majority of the workroom space was dominated by a huge mechanical device that resembled an unnatural amalgamation of a massive clock; music box and electric turbine. The great main shaft powering the turbine, descended through a hole in the workroom floor; all the way down below the very foundations of the townhouse. 

Finch had chosen this very house because of its location. Situated on a quiet cul-de-sac on the fringes of Hyde Park, the structure’s foundations were built over the subterranean course of the river Westbourne. The Machine’s turbine shaft ended in the cellar; it’s terminal cog fitting into another gear that was powered by a waterwheel submersed in the Westbourne’s current. The underground river was narrow and swift at this point and perfect for Lord Finch’s requirements. 

In fact, the generator was so powerful that it provided electricity for the rest of the house at no expense to the inventor. This clean, efficient and virtually limitless supply of energy enabled Harold to conduct his experiments. The aristocrat's neighbors were either elderly reclusives themselves or peers who spent the majority of their time at sprawling estates far from the bustle of London. For most of the year, Finch had the street virtually to himself; as he knew he would based on the scrupulous inquiries into the location he'd made while searching for a new residence.

Finch buttoned the oilskin as he made his way towards the far corner. The heart of the great Machine resided here, stabilized by four oaken beams and bounded by the very walls of the house itself. The dwelling was of dressed stone and therefore less susceptible to vibrational influences than mere plaster and wood. The beams themselves were padded with leather, stuffed with horsehair and cotton-wool. 

These precautions were necessary as the slightest disturbance of the chronographic mechanism could result in flinging a traveler years, even decades off their intended destination. Harold donned gloves made of the finest kidskin, almost as supple as his own epidermis; thin enough to allow sensation to penetrate the well-tanned leather and be perceived by his fingertips.

The genius opened a square door set in the exact centre of the Machine. Inside a veritable sea of gears, flywheels, cogs and pendulums connected to a huge mainspring. Copper, brass and sprung steel gleamed in the brightness of the lamps. Four dials were inset to the righthand side of the door. Engraved on brass plates next to each were the words: _Month, Day, Year_ and _Time_.

Finch carefully adjusted the first three dials to that day’s date. He paused, pulling his pocketwatch out to consult it, then clicked the tumbler wheels until the desired numerals were showing. Harold closed the door with infinite care; backing away from the Machine with careful steps. The valet mirrored his actions, reaching out to take the gloves Finch shoved at the servant.

The aristocrat kept his oilskin coat on and snatched up a well-worn derby from a side table. He moved to the opposite end of the room where a curiously shaped platform rested on a padded section of floor. The platform was made from one solid piece of hand carved oak, exactly four feet long on each of its three sides. Its corners and indeed the entire surface had been rounded off and polished until the whole thing was as smooth as glass; with a finish shiny enough to match.

At each corner of the platform a sturdy wooden arm arched up in a graceful bow to meet its matching neighbors in an elegant bell shape. The arms were bound at their apex by a gleaming copper ring, thicker than a man’s wrist. A shining steel spike protruded from the top of the arms, extending a full foot above the copper ring. 

At the terminus of the Machine proper there rose a huge cylinder of steel, ten inches in diameter. It protruded six feet into the air and a ring of tightly wound copper and steel wires crowned it. Inside the cylinder rose a shaft capped with powerful magnets. When the generator was activated, the shaft spun counter-clockwise. The magnetic field thus generated affected the wire ring, creating a massive current. When the current reached its maximum strength, it would discharge; arcing towards the platform's spike and completing the circuit

It was to this end that Finch's preparations were geared. There was no alternative...the recluse would have to move backwards through time.

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Lord Finch opened a smaller padded box on the platform; carefully adjusting the date and time settings for his return. The platform controls also contained what looked like a miniature sextant set between four more dials. Harold was most particular in the setting of the latitude-longitude co-ordinates, for without their guidance the platform would reach neither his destination nor be able to return home. 

He turned his attention to the power cells beneath the box. When the current discharged into the platform, its excess would be pulled through a tangle of wires into the cells and stored....waiting to be used to get him and (he hoped) his subject back to the present. Satisfied that all was in readiness, Harold donned a pair of blue-tinted goggles; settling them over his spectacles. Jimson did the same and turned on the generators at Finch's nod.

The great machine stirred into life, its gears and cogs turning smoothly in response to the power flowing through them. The hum of its activity grew higher in pitch as the gears sped up and Finch could see tiny sparks arcing around the great wire ring. He hobbled to the platform, pulling on a pair of heavy gauntlets and gripped a leather strap hanging from one of the supports. The hum had reached a crescendo and Harold knew it was time. He shouted to his servant.

_**"Now Jimson!"**_

“Safe journey, Sir!”

Jimson threw the main switch and a streak of incandescent white arced from the generator bulb to the platform spike. A loud _**CRACK** _broke through the Machine’s humming and the entire room was engulfed in a bright blue glow. As quickly as it happened the light dispersed, the humming sound diminished. The platform had vanished, taking Harold Finch with it.__

__**ticktockticktockticktockticktock** _ _

__NOTES: So the journey begins.... Sir Hareington is looking insufferably pleased with his furry, little self but at least the bounder is letting me get on with things in my own time. I think Gunter needs to take him in hand... _hmmmm, that might actually be inspiring for future chapters...those Victorians had their secrets after all!__ _


	3. Altered Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For although it can be crossed, it can almost never be navigated....."

Title: Clockwork  
Chapter III: Altered Course  
Rating: T to NC-17 (for violence and sexual situations in later chapters)  
Genre: Adventure, AU, Steampunk, Slash, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, Nathan Ingram, Lionel Fusco  
Pairing: Finch/Ingram, Finch/Reese

NOTES: This chapter is short but I hated to leave Finch hanging in the maelstrom for the holiday weekend. Hope everyone who is celebrating has a safe and happy Thanksgiving!

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

_"Get out...now."_

_His visitor's eyes shifted from the knife to Reese's own grim expression. Without uttering another word, the small man gave him a half-bow. He turned and limped out the door...Reese listened to the uneven tap of his cane on the stairs until at last the street door opened and closed behind him._

_John returned the knife to its hidden sheath on his arm and dropped his 'East End' persona. He moved to his window and, keeping hidden in the shadows, peered down. 'Mr. Finch' stood on the rooming-house doorstep for a moment; looking up and down the street as if bewildered as to what he should do next._

_At last the little man limped up the sidewalk, the set of his shoulders radiating frustration to his unseen watcher. John kept his eyes on the charcoal gray top hat until it disappeared around a corner; then he began throwing what few belongings he had into a small carpetbag._

_He hated to leave this building...its location and off-street entrance had suited his requirements admirably. But...if he'd been found once, he could be again. And one who had survived as long as he had, in the businesses he'd been in, learned early that only caution and vigilance would keep him in that state._

 

The former covert agent knelt down to retrieve a small leather pouch from underneath his mattress when a sudden shockwave threw him against the brass bedframe. The blast of wind that followed bowled the tall man onto his side, knocking the breath out of him. 

Reese's mouth worked as he simultaneously tried to draw in oxygen and struggled to right himself, when he felt hands grasp his shoulders and pull him backward. He struggles were feeble as he was still too disoriented from the sonic concussion to put up much of a fight. He found himself on a triangular wooden platform and reached out to grasp what he thought might be a table leg. Reese pulled himself upright, fingers tangling into a leather strap which was immediately buckled around his wrist.

The agent gave an inarticulate cry and pulled against the restraint. He shook his head and at last became aware of the man standing next to him. Reese blinked his eyes, recognition dawning in them and snarled. _"You!"_

Jonathan's anger faded as the realization crossed his mind that his mysterious visitor had changed, returned undetected to his rooms with some odd piece of furniture and managed to subdue him...all in the space of thirty seconds. In his state of confusion, his lowborn persona slipped away. "How did you? Where? What's going on?!"

"I'll explain once we've arrived at our destination, Mr. Reese. For the meantime I suggest you hold on to the platform and close your eyes!" 

Finch flipped a switch and the younger man cried out again as he found himself yanked sideways. The sharp _**CRACK**_ reverberated through Reese's body as the platform they were standing on jerked; flinging him off balance. Only the fact that his hand was tied kept him on his feet.

_"Keep your eyes closed!"_ Finch shouted over the roaring winds that now buffeted them. Jonathan instinctively did as he was ordered. He was conscious of the sensation of opposing air currents; as if he were standing between two steam trains going in opposite directions; close enough that he might reach out and touch them if he did but try.

Then the chaos stopped; the platform landing with a shuddering thump. This time Reese did fall to his knees. His body might now be stationary but his head was still tilting like a child's teeter board. The captive's stomach heaved and he retched helplessly, spewing its meager contents. 

Warm hands cradled his head and he was dimly aware that a bucket had been positioned beneath his chin as he vomited a second and third time. A towel sponged his face clean and another was pressed into his free hand. John laboriously hauled himself to his feet and shook the numbness out of his hand once it was freed from its binding.

"What in the name of seven hells _was_ that?" Reese managed to gasp out, pressing the cold, wet cloth to his forehead and neck.

"That, Mr. Reese was the maelstrom of time. Welcome to the future." The smaller man consulted his pocket watch. "Exactly ninety-two minutes and sixteen seconds into the future to be precise."

"Wh-where the blazes am I?" The agent gripped the platform's support, using it to steady himself. 

“We have, in addition to moving forward in time Mr. Reese, traveled from your East End, third floor flat to my private West End residence.”

Jonathan Reese wiped his face once again with the towel. _“Forward in time?”_ He turned skeptical eyes on the strange little man before him. “I doubt that very highly.”

The aristocrat nodded to the curtained casement on the closest wall. “If you will be so good as to look out of the window, you will note that it is now twilight.” Finch’s lips twisted in irony. 

“Although I could have tampered with the clocks in this room, which I assure you I did not; even I do not have the power to alter the sun’s rate of speed or course of direction.”

A quiet chuckle from his other side drew Reese’s attention from Finch. His eyes met those of Jimson and Jonathan’s brows knitted in puzzlement as he took in the servant’s appearance.

“Who the devil are you?”

“Jimson is my valet, Mr. Reese; a valuable and much appreciated member of my household.” Finch’s expression turned disapproving as his visitor began to laugh.

“You’re joking, right?” Reese pointed at the servant. “You mean-”

“That is quite enough!” the aristocrat’s voice again held that tone of authoritative command and Jonathan’s mouth snapped shut, his soldier’s training taking over. 

“You will show Jimson the utmost respect while you are here, Mr. Reese.”

“That's assuming that I _will_ be staying. Why have you brought me here anyway? You never said.”

“If you recall our earlier conversation sir, I believe I did.” 

Jimson stepped forward and removed Finch’s coat, derby, goggles and gloves then quit the room. Harold took his time polishing his glasses and refitting them on his face. When he turned at last to face Jonathan, his eyes were challenging.

“ _Time_ , Mr. Reese, is why you are here. My job and, soon to be yours as well I hope, is to be in time.”


	4. Inner Workings

Title: Clockwork  
Chapter IV: Inner Workings  
Rating: T to NC-17 (for violence and sexual situations in later chapters)  
Pairing: Finch/Reese, Finch/Ingram  
Genre: Adventure, AU, Steampunk, Time Travel, Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slash, Drama, Humor  
Word Count: 2330

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Jonathan Reese had driven off his snooping visitor, tried to make his escape, been abducted, moved to a different location and become violently ill; all in less than two hours. To now find himself seated in a very comfortable wingchair, in a well-appointed room did nothing to help ease his disorientation; although the creature comfort was aiding his body’s recovery from the rough treatment it had received.

He regarded his host with wary interest, still not sure of the smaller man's motives. After looking out a window and seeing for himself that dusk had fallen however, Reese was willing to entertain the notion that he had in fact moved forward in time. Jonathan knew that he had not lost consciousness during his misadventure. Certainly there was no other surface explanation for the fact that he had also moved no few miles westward in the blink of an eye and, for the meantime, was open to hearing the aristocrat‘s theories.

Harold Finch was watching his guest in return; noting that the man relaxed back in his chair just a fraction and deemed it the right moment to tender a more detailed account of his actions.

"I apologize for bringing you here in such an abrupt fashion, Mr. Reese. In my defense, however I must point out that you were not inclined to listen to my conversational gambit."

"Not when I walked in my flat to find you waiting for me, no." The taller man's voice held a note of menace. Reese hadn't bothered to keep up his Cockney persona, figuring he'd given away the game some time ago already.

Finch nodded. "I apologize for that intrusion as well. But, when words failed I felt compelled to give you a more....tangible demonstration of my claims."

The scientist leaned forward in his chair. "The point is, I _need_ you Mr. Reese; your intelligence, your skills....the work I mentioned to you before, I cannot do on my own. I need your help."

Jonathan was about to reply when a quiet knock sounded on the door. His host gave a small smile.

"Enter."

The same servant that had been in the equipment room now wheeled a low cart over to where the two men were seated. "Forgive my interrupting, Sir but I thought perhaps you might be in need of refreshment."

"Thank you Jimson. Your timing, as always is impeccable." Finch turned to the other man. "Has your digestive system settled enough to consider the possibility of food, Mr. Reese?"

"Yes." Jonathan was surprised to find himself feeling hungry. The plate of sandwiches the valet placed on the table looked suitably appetizing. The sharp scent of ham hit his nose and set his mouth watering. His eyes took in the two ceramic pots at the centre of the cart, brows raised in curiosity. 

"I took the liberty of preparing coffee for Mr. Reese, M'lord; thinking he would prefer that to tea."

The younger man stood up; agitation clearly written on his features. "How in blue blazes could you possibly have known that M-"

" _Jimson_ sir." The valet cut him off and John's eyes widened at the sharpness in the servant's voice. "Just Jimson." At once the calm facade of the competent domestic was back in place.

"Your manner of speech indicates that you are of American origin. Although I cannot say where you were born, you did spend a significant amount of time in the city of New York. I simply deduced that coffee would be more to your liking. My apologies, Mr. Reese, if I mis-judged your tastes. I shall bring another pot of tea at once." Jimson gave a half-bow and turned to do just that.

"No....I'd rather have coffee." He eyed the servant speculatively. "You’re very perceptive _Jimson_..."

"Please sit down Mr. Reese." Finch's tone was mild but there was no mistaking the comment for anything other than a command. Once again the soldier Reese had been obeyed with alacrity; taking orders was second nature to him. He'd been on his own for so long and a small portion of his psyche was missing the stability of having a commanding officer. Jonathan knew what he was good at and what he wasn’t. He was a fighter, not a tactician. 

The recluse took a long draught of his tea and contemplated his companion. "I congratulate you on your impersonation, sir. Your accent fooled me completely. May I ask how it is you came to be squatting in Camden Town?"

"I was unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; to inadvertently overhear something I shouldn’t have and of having the wrong people find out about it." Reese's voice was laced with bitterness. His sapphire coloured eyes stared into the fire as he was pulled back to one of the darkest times of his life. 

“It was either stay in New York and constantly watch my back or leave.” The former military man looked at his host, the frustrated anger in his gaze palpable. “So I came to London...and lost myself in the East End.”

Lord Finch sipped again; digesting the younger man’s words. When he spoke at last, his voice was quiet but filled with an earnestness that couldn’t be faked.

“I think we can help one another, Mr. Reese. Some men become soldiers to fight a common enemy, some out of a mis-guided desire for glory. Others do so in the hopes of earning immortality through heroism.” Harold put his cup aside and leaned forward, wanting to be sure that Reese _heard_ him.

“I think _you_ became one because you wanted to protect people...I think that’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

Jonathan resumed looking into the flames but Finch was right....he _did_ want to protect others; people who _couldn’t_ fight those who threatened their families. _I’m like a ship without a rudder...I don’t know how to get back to doing just that....I don’t-_

“What you need, Mr. Reese is a purpose. More specifically, you need a _job_.” Lord Finch said, breaking into the younger man's uncertain thoughts. The aristocrat extended his hand. “Will you help me protect people? To allow them a second chance?”

Reese searched the lord's gaze for any sign of prevarication. Finding none and desperately wanting to believe the man in spite of common sense telling him this was all insane; Jonathan clasped Finch’s hand in his own, shaking it firmly.

“Alright, I’m willing to try.”

“That’s all I can ask, Mr. Reese.”

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

His new employer refused to further discuss the details of Reese’s position; insisting instead that he eat and rest. Without further prompting, Jonathan fell upon the plate of sandwiches with the ferocity of a starving wolf; consuming them and the majority of the coffee in a very short space of time.

The aristocrat watched without comment and was about to ring for Jimson when the valet once again entered the room; exchanging the empty tray on the cart for a full one, then exited without a word. A glass of water stood next to a smaller plate of cold salad; with knife, fork and napkin laid out neatly to one side. 

John couldn’t hide his pleasure at this new offering. It had been so long since he’d tasted fresh vegetables of any kind. Produce in Camden Town didn’t come cheap unless it was boiled to near tastelessness or chopped fine and swimming in some noxious liquid masquerading as soup; procured from a street vendor. The edges of his hunger having been blunted by the sandwiches, Reese was able to consume the salad in a more civilized manner. The clean water was almost as much a luxury as the food to one from his part of the city.

Wiping his mouth, Jonathan lay the napkin alongside his plate and settled back in his chair. He inclined his head to his host; expressing gratitude but not subservience. He wanted to make quite clear from the outset that he was remaining where he was because he was _choosing_ to.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Reese.” Lord Finch consulted his pocketwatch. “It’s growing late and after your journey through the maelstrom, I know you will be tired. Jimson will show you to a guestroom for tonight.” 

The older man stood, Reese following suit immediately, and half-bowed to his employee. “Tomorrow we will discuss the... _particulars_ of our work. For the meantime, I bid you goodnight and again, Mr. Reese, I thank you.”

“Goodnight.” Jonathan watched as Finch limped out of the study. _Whatever happened to him, it must have been horrific. His neck, lower back and hip are all compromised....I can’t begin to imagine the pain he must be in._

“If you’ll please follow me, Mr. Reese.”

The valet’s quiet voice penetrated the ex-soldier’s thoughts, pulling him back to the present. He turned to see Jimson waiting with infinite patience for Reese’s acknowledgement. Jonathan nodded and followed the valet up a grand staircase to the house’s second floor. As they passed a series of doors, Jimson indicated the nature of the chambers behind them. 

“Bathing room; linen closet; guest room, guest room; Lord Finch’s suite; upstairs library...” and finally, “this room has been prepared for your use this evening, sir.”

Reese could hear the subtle difference in Jimson’s use of the title with him versus the more ‘reverent’ inflection reserved for the aristocrat. Jonathan smirked, withholding his comment. The valet was not disrespectful of him, far from it in fact, but it was very clear that _guest_ or _fellow employee_ held a different position in Jimson’s view than _master of the house_.

The valet opened the door and stepped aside, waiting for Reese to enter the room first. As he did so, Jimson pressed a switch and the bedchamber was flooded with a soft, even light. Jonathan’s eyes opened wide as he took in the wall sconces; one by the bed, the other next to the door. He turned to the servant.

“This room is wired for electricity?”

Jimson’s smile, although muted, held a trace of smug pride. “Yes indeed, sir. Lord Finch had the entire house converted from gaslight to electricity. It is much safer and reliable.”

The valet crossed the room and opened a door on the left-hand wall opposite the bed. Jimson palmed another switch, stepping aside once again so that Reese could inspect the next room. To his pleased surprise, Jonathan noted that it was a bathing room; fully plumbed with an indoor toilet and a showerhead above the tub. A porcelain basin with taps occupied the other wall and Reese saw that linens and toiletries had already been laid in.

“I’m sure that Lord Finch will expect you for lunch, Mr. Reese but if you would care to have breakfast in your rooms, I can arrange it.”

“That will suit me just fine, M-umm, Jimson.”

“Very good sir. There are spare nightclothes in the wardrobe, if you’d care to bathe and change before retiring. The door on the opposite wall connects this suite with the library. If you need anything during the night, just ring.” Jimson indicated the ornately embroidered bellpull next to the bed.

“Good evening, sir.” The servant bowed and left; closing the door on Reese’s stammered thanks. The false cockney examined his temporary accommodations with care; running a hand over the fine linens covering the bed. Back in his Camden Town digs, Jonathan would have merely shucked his clothes and rolled into bed. These more luxurious surroundings however, made him very aware of his less than pristine state. 

Stripping off, Reese draped his clothing over the back of one chair and stepped into the porcelain tub. He turned on the taps, exclaiming in quiet pleasure at the hot water that gushed out. Jonathan adjusted the temperature and eschewing a soak, utilized the showerhead for a more thorough cleaning of his hair and body.

From his own rooms, Harold Finch could hear the murmur of Reese and Jimson’s voices moving down the hall. The aristocrat finished changing into his nightshirt; pulling a dressing gown of quilted peacock-blue velvet over his shoulders and belting it about the waist. Seated at the small table in the corner of the room, Finch had just picked up his latest evening read when he heard the sound of water running.

_Thank God_....he sighed in relief. The recluse had half-thought he would have to force the issue with his new employee. Given the opportunity however, Jon Reese seemed more than willing to indulge in proper hygiene. A quiet tap sounded on his door.

“Come in.”

“I’m about to retire, Sir. Is there anything you require before I do so?”

“No thank you, Jimson.” The valet nodded and started to withdraw when Finch spoke again. “About Mr. Reese....”

“Yes sir?”

“I would value your opinion in regards to my decision.”

Hazel eyes regarded their master for a moment before the servant spoke. 

“Candidly Sir? I think, once he realizes that what you tell him is the truth, he will become a valuable asset M’lord. As for the man himself....” Jimson broke off and Finch sensed his valet’s hesitation.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“Mr. Reese has a good heart and a noble spirit, Sir. I think that spirit has come perilously close to being broken...he’s been betrayed by people he trusted...most likely his _superiors_.” Jimson’s eyes were sad. “It will take some time before he will be able to trust again... _but_ when and if he does, the recipient will profit from it a thousandfold.”

The valet regarded the aristocrat with a knowing expression and Finch could almost read Rob’s thoughts. _He's not unlike myself in that regard, you mean?_

“I agree. Sleep well, Jimson.” 

“Thank you Sir. Good evening." 

Rob closed the door, leaving Harold alone with his thoughts. _If this partnership works...if Reese proves to be as helpful as I think he will, then we shall be able to assist so many._ The peer exhaled, relief flowing over him at last. For the first time....since the loss of Nathan, Harold allowed himself to feel a sliver of hope. 

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

NOTES: Had this chappie hanging around in the cooler for a week or so but wanted to post it as I'm working on the remaining 2 gift fic slots. For those who've picked up 'Clockwork', thank you and I hope this tides you over until next week! 


	5. Telling of the Hours

Title: Clockwork  
Chapter V: Telling of the Hours   
Rating: NC-17 (brief sexual content)  
Genre: Adventure, AU, Steampunk, Slash, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, Nathan Ingram  
Pairing: Finch/Ingram, Finch/Reese  
Word Count: 1865

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Jonathan Reese slowly awakened to the sensations of being warm and comfortable. Since neither condition were states he experienced normally, the ex-soldier assumed he was on the tag end of a very good dream. He blinked sleep fogged eyes at the bright morning sunlight streaming through sheer curtains. _I don't own curtains....what the hell?!_

Tossing back the thick down comforter that had kept him snug during the night, he got up. At once everything clicked into place. _I'm in Lord Finch's house._ Reese recalled his journey of the previous evening, Finch‘s explanations, bathing then slipping into bed. He must have fallen asleep almost at once. Admittedly, the first _sound_ night's rest he'd enjoyed in a very long time. _So all of it was real...in less than twenty-four hours I’ve gone from shiftless wanderer to the protagonist of a Jules Verne novel._ He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to come to terms with his new reality.

Walking into the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water, the bracing chill on his skin doing much to settle him. Reese smiled, _I also recall the amenities of this place, ones that I intend to make good use of._

Jon indulged himself in a long soak in the enormous clawfoot tub; more for the restorative powers of immersing his lean frame in blissfully hot water than any real need to be clean. It was on all accounts, a most satisfactory start to the day. He had just slipped into the dressing gown he'd found hanging on the bathroom door hook, when a quiet double-knock sounded at his door.

"Come in."

Rob Jimson entered, bearing a tray laden with covered dishes, a fine china cup and silver-chased carafe. "Good morning Mr. Reese."

Jonathan watched in bemused silence as the valet laid out his breakfast things, poured a cup of coffee and gave Lord Finch's guest a polite nod of the head.

"Just ring for me when you're finished and I will collect your tray."

By the time Reese recovered enough to thank the servant, Jimson had withdrawn. Jon pondered anew his improved state of living for a full thirty seconds before his stomach gave a very audible rumble; the scents of good food wafting across the room to his nostrils. 

Jimson had made it plain during their conversation the previous day that Finch would not expect him to appear until noon. Reese glanced at the wall clock; it was still early morning. It had been so long since he'd been able to linger over any meal that Jon wondered how else he could pass the time. Exploring the house could wait; Jon wouldn’t do so without leave from its owner in any case. Subconsciously, the ex-soldier’s psyche had now begun to consider Lord Finch his commanding officer and as such not to be trespassed upon. 

Jon stared at the third door of his room and making up his mind, traded the robe for his only pair of trousers. Deciding to forego a shirt, Jon opened the door leading to the library and began a quick browse for a book to accompany his meal. 

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Lord Finch sighed, returning to consciousness with a sense of peace that had eluded him for the better part of three years. In as much as his injuries would allow him too, Finch had slept deeply and well. He lay against the mound of pillows required to support his damaged body, staring at the blurry ceiling of his chamber. _I have an…associate, I suppose is the word. Someone to help me._

These positive thoughts buoyed him as he struggled out of bed, pulling on his spectacles and limping over to the massive oak wardrobe occupying the far corner of his room. Harold paused for a moment, lips twisting into a self-deprecating smile as he caught his reflection the large oval dressing mirror. Without thinking he'd chosen one of his more ornate nightshirts the previous evening; it’s fine woven linen dyed periwinkle blue. The garment buttoned at the left shoulder and sported a wide band of Russian style embroidery about the collar, cuffs and front edge.

Nathan had teased him unmercifully about his love of color, his complaints about Finch's 'dandified' ways a well-worn and comfortable jest between them. Harold recalled that Ingram most often voiced them while the watchmaker was divesting his partner of his 'peacock's plumes'. _But then Nathan would have been happy in sack-cloth and ashes, so long as there was a mechanical puzzle that needed solving._ A large part of Finch's attraction to his 'Golden Giant' was that Ingram pulled the aristocrat out of his natural reticence. Forced him to relax, to slow down and realize that sometimes, _almost_ was just as good as _finished and in record time_.

Harold divested himself of the nightshirt, pulling on a pair of lightweight linen underdrawers and his handsome teal dressing gown. As he wanted Mr. Reese to sleep himself out this morning, Finch felt free to indulge himself in a quiet read before Jimson brought his breakfast. Consulting the mantle clock, Harold was pleased to see that he was a good half-hour before his normal waking time. 

_So I shall spend the next thirty minutes with the emperor Augustus...or perhaps the erudite philosophers of Greece's great past._

Harold opened the library door and froze, confronted by the sight of his employee clad only in a pair of trousers. Finch swallowed; unable to look away...his gaze in fact drawn to the planes of muscle bunching over the younger man's shoulders as he reached to grasp a book on an upper shelf. Reese's skin was dusky bronze up to the tops of his arms; paler on his back and torso from lack of exposure to the sun. The silver tracery of scars crisscrossing that back did nothing to detract from its appearance. Harold saw them as marks of courage; badges testifying to the soldier's strength and bravery....unlike his own.

The aristocrat became aware of a warmth in the pit of his belly. He gasped as he realized what it was.... _I haven't...not for...not since Nathan...._ his mind gabbled at him. All at once Reese turned around and the two men locked eyes; Finch rendered mute with embarrassment. 

Jonathan was startled for a moment to see his employer but gave a respectful nod of the head to the older man. His polite smile faded into confusion as the aristocrat continued to stand in his bedroom doorway without speaking. _What the deuce is wrong with the man? I don't...ah....._ Reese saw how the other man's eyes darted over his bare chest before returning to his face and comprehension dawned. Feeling a touch of the devil, thanks to the excellent night's sleep he'd enjoyed; Jonathan decided to tease the prim and proper man a bit. 

"Good morning, Mr. Finch." With a complete lack of modesty, Reese rubbed his fingers across his belly; as if scratching an itch. Hearing Finch's quiet intake of breath, it was all Jonathan could do not to smirk. He allowed his hand to slide up his breastbone before coming to rest at the back of his neck. 

Reese stretched his elbow out and pushed his head sideways, working the muscles in his chest and causing his bicep to flex. He lowered his eyelids enough to make it seem as if they were closed; peeking through his lashes to see Finch lick his lips and shift his stance. Jon laughed in his head. _Things feeling a bit...constricting, m’lord?_

Finch cleared his throat, realizing that he had yet to greet the other man.

"Good morning Mr. Reese. I, _ahem_ , trust you slept well?" 

Jonathan's eyes opened just in time to catch Finch brush a hand over his waist. "Very well indeed. I have no complaints about the comfort of my bed." His smile took on a self-conscious air. "I hope I haven't disturbed you, I was just looking to borrow a book; if I may?"

"Of course...feel free to read anything you like in either of my libraries." 

Harold made his way to stand behind one of the reading chairs, fingers white-knuckled as they gripped the back of the piece of furniture now effectively shielding his condition. The warmth in his nethers was creeping inexorably upward and Finch felt his cheeks flush as Reese began to rub his stomach again. Harold caught himself wondering what the younger man’s skin would feel like.

"Thank you. Jimson has kindly brought me breakfast, so I'll retire to it before it cools. Good morning again, Mr. Finch." Reese inclined his head and returned to his room.

Harold staggered back into his own chamber, locking the door behind him and sat down hard on the side of his bed. His underdrawers were painfully tight and he undid the fly-buttons; lifting his hips just enough to push the linen down his legs. His penis bobbed free, stiffening further as the cool morning air brushed against it.

Harold moaned, heat flooding his neck and cheeks as he recalled the sculpted beauty of Jonathan's chest. He tugged the belt of his dressing gown loose; fingers groping inside it to caress his own nipple. Reese's hair, although black instead of blond, was the same length that Nathan always preferred... _even with the same untidiness he favored._ Finch's other hand slid down to grasp his cock, squeezing it. He bucked into his fist, the heavy velvet garment slipping off his shoulders.

Finch thought about what anyone's reaction would be if they were to come upon him now…robe tangled around his arms, his body bared; his own hand teasing his foreskin, stroking himself as he panted in desperate need. If Ingram could have seen him like this, the watchmaker would have laughed in uninhibited delight before participating in a more intimate fashion. Harold imagined Nathan's hands on him, _pushing him back into the bed linens…the strong fingers stripping him naked; touching his chest, stomach, fondling his cock._

Harold's hips pistoned, thrusting into his fingers as the images in his mind fueled his ardor. _Ingram spreading the aristocrat's legs, reaching between them to play with his opening. Nathan...._ Finch gave a strangled sob; spending himself into the undergarments still wrapped about his legs. The older man shuddered, feeling pleasant tingles along his spine and groin. _So long…it's been so long since…._

Harold rarely pleasured himself anymore. Compared to what he had shared with his lover, the act itself was little more than a hollow mockery; barely satisfying a physical need. Finch entertained no visitors, no guests and the only other person to reside at Plover House besides Jimson and himself had been his beloved partner. 

The sight of Mr. Reese's body had shocked him into arousal. Add to that the memories of... _of Nathan touching me, holding me._ Finch drew another shuddering breath; rolling over onto his good side as he kicked off the soiled piece of clothing. Unbidden, tears began to spill out of his eyes; soaking into the pillows. 

As good as the distraction had felt, the aftermath left a weight of emptiness in his chest. Nathan was gone....reduced to a collection of bittersweet memories; and he, Harold Finch, was so very _alone....._

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

NOTES: This was part of one longer chapter that I have had hanging since before Christmas. The original draft for this one was pushing 5,000 words so I decided to carve it up into more manageable chunks. Sorry to end this one on such a depressing note, lol!


	6. Calibration

Title: Clockwork  
Chapter VI: Calibration  
Rating: PG  
Genre: Adventure, AU, Steampunk, Slash, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, Nathan Ingram  
Pairing: Finch/Ingram, Finch/Reese  
Word Count: 2510

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Oblivious to his employer’s state of turmoil, Reese applied himself diligently to the fried eggs, tomatoes, bread and bacon the valet had brought to his rooms. _So Mr. Finch prefers men too, does he? That could have unexpected...compensations._ Whether Jon chose to admit it to himself or not, the plain truth was the smaller man roused both his protective instincts and his interest. The fact that Finch was also frighteningly intelligent, highly observant and not unpleasant to look at, only added to the aristocrat's appeal. Harold Finch was.... _intriguing_.

_I've more practical matters to concern myself with now than fantasies about some toff_ , he scolded himself as he mopped up the last bit of egg yolk from his plate with the remaining bread. _I need to consult with Jimson about obtaining what few possessions I had from my rooming house. Perhaps Finch has a coach I can borrow._ Jon folded the bread and stuffed it in his mouth; washing it down with the last of the coffee. He returned to the bathroom and was pleased to find a brand new razor and strop set on the shelf next to the washbasin. A mug, brush, cake of shaving soap and scissors resided there as well and Reese spared a glance at himself in the mirror.

_How long has it been since I've even bothered looking at my reflection?_

His hair had grown out below his ears and even with its recent washing, was still unkempt. A good four days of stubble graced his chin and his entire countenance looked haggard. Faint traces of purple and yellow were visible on his left cheek; giving mute testimony to the fist-fight Jon had gotten into a couple of days before Finch showed up. 

Only his eyes remained the same; their keen intelligence blunted by sadness, washed with a jaded world-weariness that spoke of things seen that no-one should have. He thought about what the aristocrat must have observed upon their first meeting.... _a coarse man, uncouth...common. How could he consider you anything else?_

Reese, suddenly ashamed of his appearance, felt his ears burn. He tested the razor, finding it honed and ready. Lathering up, the ex-soldier scraped his cheeks clean; then used the scissors to trim his hair as best he could. A bottle of cologne caught his attention and Jon lifted the glass stopper, risking an exploratory sniff. Notes of sandalwood augmented by a hint of lime and bergamot mingled pleasantly in his nose. The scent was fresh rather than cloying and he applied a small amount to his throat and chest.

When he regarded his visage again, Jonathan felt much better. He looked more like the soldier…the _man_ he had been in better times. _Perhaps, perhaps I can find my way back to that self again._ Reese stared into blue eyes that now looked back at him with renewed determination. If a trace of sadness still lingered in them, then at least a small spark of hope had appeared to balance it.

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Rob Jimson was worried. The valet's innate sense of what Lord Finch's requirements might be on any given day prompted the servant to delay bringing the aristocrat's breakfast. An hour later Jimson laid out a modified morning meal for the peer, gathered up a bundle of laundry and returned downstairs without either party speaking a single word.

Lord Finch had not even acknowledged his servant when Rob entered the room. Harold had been intently poring over a tome of ancient history with what appeared to be rapt absorption. Any other servant would have taken the brown study at face value but the valet had from the outset been attentive to all nuances of Finch's behavior. Jimson's master was agitated; for what reason the servant couldn't fathom. That fact alone was enough to make Rob uneasy.

_Very well…I shall observe and bide my time. If it is something I can rectify, then I will know soon. If not…_ Jimson sighed.

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

When Harold Finch descended to the ground floor for lunch, he was the picture of calm. The bottle-green suit now girding his frame contrasted well with the royal blue cravat he'd chosen. If the peer had spent longer at his toilette this morning than was his usual wont; then there was no-one in his household willing to contest the point with him. 

How Rob had divined to leave him to his privacy this morning, Finch couldn't begin to fathom. The time alone had allowed him to collect himself, however and Harold was grateful for it. Now suitably attired and mentally prepared, the aristocrat was ready to instruct his new employee in the intricacies of breaching time.

He entered the dining room just as his valet finished laying a second place-setting on the massive mahogany table. Finch nodded approval, giving Rob a smile as he seated himself. Jimson poured the aristocrat a glass of water and stepped behind Finch's chair to await the arrival of their guest. 

When Jonathan Reese walked through the doorway, valet and master openly stared at the transformed man. Washed, trimmed and neatly combed, his black hair gleamed in the sunlight streaming in through the front windows; the faint touch of silver at his temples giving him an air of purposeful determination. 

Reese had taken the time to change into one of the suits he'd found in the wardrobe. The black slacks fit him well, as did the spotless white shirt. Eschewing the suit’s jacket, Jonathan _had_ donned the matching waistcoat; completing his well put together, albeit informal appearance.

Jimson’s smile was approving as the valet gave him a nod. Finch’s heart thumped against his ribs. The effect of seeing his 'rough around the edges' guest from the morning metamorphosized into the well-groomed, yet casually dapper man now standing before him, took Finch‘s breath away. _Jonathan Reese was magnificent....._ Finch shook off such thoughts at once, refusing to court a repeat of the morning's incident.

“I apologize for being late, it will not happen again.”

“No need, Mr. Reese. Luncheon is very informal in Plover House. Please sit down.”

Jimson brought in the main course from the kitchen. With autumn closing in, the cooler weather meant the return of the valet's wide variety of soup and stew recipes. Today's offering was a filling concoction of leeks, carrots, onions and chunks of meat in a rich broth. The servant ladled bowls for each man; placed bread, butter and salt within easy reach and withdrew.

Reese watched the peer, only picking up his spoon after Finch did. Jonathan's first taste of the stew was heaven on earth. Complex, savory flavours filled his mouth and the meat's taste pulled him back across the sea to New York.... _to home_. He paused a moment; at the mercy of the memories tumbling through his brain. _Hunting in the Adirondacks...the taste of fresh game cooked over a fire..._

“Are you alright, Mr. Reese?”

Jon's awareness returned to the present, only then realizing that he’d been staring down at his bowl.

“Would you care for something else?”

“No....not at all. It‘s just been quite some time since I have eaten venison....I’d forgotten how good it was.” Reese applied himself to his serving. Finch nodded, understanding.

“Fortunately the season for it is upon us again. My estates in Scotland aren’t extensive but we do manage to have a few bucks shipped down to London over the cold months. Jimson is a master at preparing it.”

“Indeed. This is delicious.”

“Thank you sir.” The valet returned from the kitchen with a bottle of red wine, pouring a glass for the aristocrat then offering it to Reese.

“I prefer water, actually.”

“Very good sir.” Jimson vanished again with silent efficiency.

“Were you satisfied with your accommodations last night, Mr. Reese?

“I've not stayed in finer.” The ex-soldier replied with candor.

“Would you be amenable to having them become your permanent rooms?”

“I’d like that very much, thank you.”

Finch nodded. “You may of course alter the decor, within reason.” He gave his new employee a slight smile. 

“I would prefer the walls not be painted _aubergine_ but whatever personal touches you wish to make are up to your discretion. See Jimson if you have purchasing requirements and they will be taken care of.”

With this opening gambit, Reese figured now was as good a time as any to inquire about his belongings. “I was wondering if you had a coach or horse that I might ask the use of?”

“Were you in need of anything, Mr. Reese?”

“I have a few personal items....not much, that I left at the boarding house. I had wanted to-”

“Your bags are in the study, Mr. Reese.” 

_Valet appears like a bloody genie...I shouldn’t be surprised to see Finch produce a lamp next!_

“How did-”

“Our errand boy, delivered them this morning. I took the liberty of asking young Jamie to fetch them for you.”

“Do you read minds in addition to cooking and serving?” Jonathan wasn’t sure if he should be appreciative or irritated. His tone must have carried a hint of impudence however because Finch’s brows drew together in a small frown of displeasure.

“Perhaps now would be a good time to explain the daily operations of your new situation.” The aristocrat set down his glass, fixing his newest employee with a firm stare.

“My valet’s position is a singular one and you should be aware that I hold Rob Jimson in the highest of esteem.” Finch waited until he received a nod of understanding from Jonathan before continuing.

"Jimson's duties in this house are to myself and my work, Mr. Reese. You will be responsible for the upkeep of your own chambers. If this proves too onerous for you, one of the spare rooms downstairs will be converted to quarters for you. My housekeeper, will add its care to her roster. If that becomes the case then you will have to make do with the water-closet on the main floor and come upstairs to bathe.”

Jon's pride woke up at Finch's high-handed tone. _I'm his employee not his serf. I'm a freeborn American citizen...albeit one considered dead by my own government. I've about had enough of his 'Lord of the Manor' attitude._

“I think I can pick up after myself Finch. I’ve been doing just that for most of my life. A slovenly soldier doesn't last long in the field.”

Reese didn’t miss the slight stiffening in the valet’s posture when he addressed the older man by his surname only. Jimson made no comment but John had the feeling that he’d just earned a portion of enmity from the servant. _What was the dynamic between those two?_ The valet wasn‘t Finch‘s lover, of that Reese was certain. There was no tell in either person’s behaviour to indicate a romantic attachment.

There was a level of trust and comfort that spoke of intimacy but it had nothing of a sexual feel to it. _Jimson’s worked for him for quite some time and Finch has absolute faith in his servant‘s motives, that is crystal clear._

Finch raised an eyebrow at the other man's show of spirit. Indeed, he had wondered when Reese’s independent nature would assert itself. The last of his disorientation must have faded and now the soldier that Jonathan Reese had been was beginning to take stock of his altered prospects. _You wanted someone who could operate on their own recognizance...think on their feet? Well you’ve gotten that, old man. Now you just have to worry about keeping him in line..._ The aristocrat knew instinctively that how he handled things in the next few minutes would determine if a working partnership could be established.

“I intend no offense, Mr. Reese. If you prefer to choose other lodgings, I will understand and your salary should enable you to find a location that is to your liking. If you do wish to reside at Plover House, your rooms will be considered your home and your privacy will be scrupulously observed by Jimson and myself.”

Jonathan didn’t miss the quick flick of the valet’s eyes toward Finch, surprise evident in Jimson’s face for a split-second before being suppressed. _I’d wager Finch has never deferred to anyone in the matter of his personal behavior before._

“Regardless of where you live, board is included in your wages as is a stipend for clothing and any related expenses. Those are in addition to your base pay of £1000 per annum. If this meets with your approval of course.”

Jon was stunned. _A thousand pounds a year? Without having to pay for food or lodgings...even clothes? Dear God. Was Finch trying to buy his soul?_ He turned skeptical eyes on the older man. 

“What exactly will I be doing to earn it?”

“If you’ve finished with lunch, we may adjourn to the workroom and I will explain in full detail.” Both men got to their feet; Finch nodding to the front of the house. 

“Jimson will bring your bags to your rooms, that is if you will indeed be staying with us.”

“No need,” Reese answered, “I’ll take them myself.”

“Very well. Come to the upper floor when you’ve finished unpacking, second door.” Without another word the aristocrat limped out of the room. 

Jon was about to take his leave when he noticed the valet observing him through narrowed eyes. The ex-soldier had no trouble reading the other’s thoughts and smirked.

“What’s the matter? Don’t think I’m kowtowing to _the master_ enough, Jimson?”

The servant’s expression smoothed back into calm equanimity. After a moment, the valet spoke; Jimson’s mild tone belying the seriousness of the domestic’s words. 

“It is not my place to question anything Lord Finch says or does, Mr. Reese. Make no mistake however, the most important of all my duties is the insurance of my Lord’s safety.” The hazel eyes bored into Reese’s own.

“While I have no doubt that you are more skilled in defensive tactics than myself; I will _not hesitate_ to do everything in my power to protect Lord Finch from any threat....including yourself. Do we understand one another?”

Jonathan admired the valet’s grit, his eyes flicking over the servant and noting no trace of fear in the other’s stance. “I’m not here to cause trouble, Jimson. Hell, I’m not exactly sure _why_ I’m still here...other than out of curiosity.” Reese’s own eyes hardened. “But I’ll not be talked down to, by anyone.”

The valet’s posture eased a fraction. “I comprehend your concern.” Jimson paused, thinking. When the servant spoke again, Rob’s voice held a hint of entreaty. 

“Lord Finch is a good man, Mr. Reese. His motives, his heart...they are all focused on his work, which only _benefits_ those who cannot help themselves. Please give him the chance to prove this to you.”

Jon nodded. “Alright.” This time his smile held a touch more warmth. “I’d better collect my bags before I’m _summoned_.”

Jimson relaxed further, giving the ex-soldier a respectful nod before clearing away the remains of their meal.

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

NOTES: And so the sprawling saga continues. Things will pick up soon as Jon begins to assist Finch actively with his 'mission' and (cough, cough) other things. Thanks to everyone who is sticking with this convoluted, ramble being extruded by my brain, lol!


	7. Setting the Dial

Title: Clockwork  
Chapter VII: Setting the Dial  
Rating: T to NC-17 (for violence and sexual situations in later chapters)  
Genre: Adventure, AU, Steampunk, Slash, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, Nathan Ingram  
Pairing: Finch/Ingram, Finch/Reese  
Words: 2,000

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Although Reese had been in the workroom on the previous evening, he freely admitted to himself that he'd been in no shape to observe his surroundings. With two good meals and a full night's sleep bolstering his physical reserves, Jonathan now stood in the doorway; eyes widening as he took in the massive construct in front of him.

"This is your machine? _The Machine?_ " Reese stared at the thing in disbelief. 

"Yes." A wealth of pride colored the scientist's brief reply. Harold stirred, starting to caution the other man; only to close his mouth again. Reese kept his hands at his sides, taking in every detail of device with his gaze; not once making an attempt to touch anything.

_I should have realized. His soldier's training showing itself again...._ Finch felt vindication at his choice of prospective partners well up inside him. _He has the initiative and flexibility of mind to be open to new ideas, tempered by the instinct to follow orders. I pray God this works!_

Harold waited, patiently allowing Jonathan to explore the space. At last the younger man turned to face his employer and Finch could almost hear the questions rattling around in Reese's head.

"I'll save my inquires on the _mechanics_ of time-travel for a more opportune occasion, Mr. Finch." Jonathan's lips twisted into an ironic smile. "The wherefores and whys of the process will be more theoretical than _practical_ in regards to my duties; I am assuming."

Harold exhaled in surprised relief. He'd been expecting that the man would want a detailed breakdown of exactly how breaching the maelstrom worked, as well as how he'd thought of doing so in the first place. Finch was more than willing to expound on his theories but, as Reese had so succinctly stated, they would take some time to impart and that time....at least for the present, would be better spent in preparing his employee to do his work.

"Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Reese. Once the actual work has begun, we will have leisure for discussing any part of the _theory_ you may wish to. As for the work itself...."

Harold limped into the centre of the room, pausing to pick up a folded sheet of newspaper. He held it out; waiting for Reese to take it and scan its contents before speaking again.

"There are over four million persons currently residing in London, Mr. Reese. Acts of violent crime; murder and its derivatives, assault and the like occur almost every day. Some in the heat of the moment. Others are revealed to be the result of weeks, even months of premeditation. Many are deemed either _unworthy_ of police attention or simply overlooked in lieu of more notable cases.

"The sooner these incidents are dealt with, the less invasive it is to the time-stream. Events are still fluid and _easily_ capable of change for only twenty-four to forty-eight hours in most cases. After that point, the effects of the incident ripple outward; encompassing more people, places, tangents and the consequences of altering the initial incident more drastic."

"If we can change the outcome of an incident within that crucial, fluid boundary then the repercussions will be minimal on the grand scale but priceless to the individuals involved."

“That Mr. Reese, is what we will do.”

"Does it always work?"

"Not always. On some rare occasions my efforts have been unsuccessful." Harold rubbed his temple, the spectre of his failures rising in his mind. 

He looked at the younger man, his pain-filled eyes bright with purpose. "But we have to keep trying. Every life matters."

"Even ones that most people would consider irrelevant?"

"Everyone is _relevant_ to someone, Mr. Reese." Finch snapped instinctively, his thoughts going at once to Nathan. "You'd know that if you had anyone in your life you cared for!"

Jonathan seized the smaller man by the throat, his blue gaze going cold as he pushed his new employer up against the wall. His voice was almost a hiss as he whispered through clenched teeth.

"I have no family, it's true. There's no-one I left behind in America I might have considered a friend…but I did my best to defend my country, my beliefs. You've no right to disparage me for being alone. You don't know _everything_ about me or what I've been through!"

Harold shrank from the barely controlled anger he felt radiating from the man. The aristocrat was acutely aware of Reese's strength and superior size. He didn't think Jonathan would go so far as to physically harm him, but knew defusing this situation with alacrity would be in his best interests.

"Mr. Reese, please I-"

"Release Lord Finch at once, Mr. Reese."

Jonathan felt the muzzle of a revolver press into the base of his skull. He went still as he heard the quiet _click_ of the weapon being cocked.

" _Now_ , Mr. Reese. I will not caution you further." Jimson's voice was determined and the ex-soldier knew the valet wouldn't hesitate to shoot. 

Jonathan relaxed his grip, stepping away from Finch with his hands upraised. Rob Jimson circled Reese, pistol still pointed at him, to stand between the younger man and the peer. The valet's eyes never left Jon's face. "Are you alright, M'lord?"

Harold coughed, dragging a hand across his throat where his new employee's fingers had gripped him hard enough to bruise. "I'll be fine Jimson. Please put that away…you know how I feel about firearms."

"Sir?" A multitude of questions hung in that one word of inquiry.

"Rob…."

"Yes Sir." The valet complied at once.

Jonathan Reese stared at the two figures opposite him, his breath coming in quick pants as he struggled to push back memories from the darkest period of his life. Harold Finch's thoughtless remark had been so reminiscent of the attitude his former superiors had taken towards himself and his comrades: _mechanical men, unfeeling...fit only for cannon fodder_ , that he'd reacted on instinct. _Finch could not have known any of that, of course._

Now that Reese was rational again, he realized that the aristocrat's tone had held anguish, not disdain and he wondered who Finch had lost that affected him so. _A partner I think…more than a friend, certainly._ He forced his breathing to slow, relaxing his stance to ease the tension between the three of them. A ripple of amusement passed through him as he noted Jimson still eyeing him warily. The valet was the same height as Finch and yet ready to face Reese down again if necessary. _Like a terrier guarding a hedgehog from a lion…_

The expression on Finch's face, however made Jonathan pause. The older man sensed at least a portion of the soldier's sorrow it seemed and he was the first to break the silence.

"You are correct, Mr. Reese. I _don't_ know everything about you; as neither do you in regards to myself." Harold Finch's voice was calm. "Suffice it to say that we both have…difficulties in the realm of placing trust." He held his hand out to the taller man. 

"I apologize."

Jonathan was stunned. For the second time today, this upper class gentleman had begged his pardon. _Jimson must be having apoplectic fits…_ indeed when he risked a glance at Rob, the valet looked less than pleased. Reese clasped the older man's hand, giving it a firm shake.

"Sorry Finch. It's been a long time since I've… What I mean is, I won't let my temper get the better of me again."

"Well enough. Shall we continue our discussion?"

Reese nodded, turning back to the time-travel apparatus. Jimson took up a position by the door; not intruding into the conversation but clearly unwilling to leave Finch alone with, in the valet's opinion, a borderline madman. 

Lord Finch made no comment, understanding Rob's need to see to his welfare. In spite of his innate dislike of guns, Harold was glad of Jimson's timely intervention. It wasn't the first time Rob had safeguarded his life and truthfully, the aristocrat was relieved that the valet chose to stay.

"How do the newspapers fit in?"

"Every day Jimson brings me the morning and evening papers…"

_"All of them?"_ Reese's interjection was incredulous.

"Those reporting occurrences in London proper." Lord Finch sighed. "At present I am limited by my knowledge of geography, longitude and latitude. Within the city's borders, I can pinpoint almost every location. Those few that I do not know, I can quickly determine it from local maps. Outside of London…well there is only so much one can do."

Harold brandished another newspaper page. "Jimson and I go through them, looking for incidents. We dare not attempt to change large-scale problems; logistically it is impossible. Even with the smaller anomalies, we cannot change them all."

"Then what, you play God? How do you decide which _anomaly_ is worthy of being changed?"

"It isn't a question of worthiness but of what can, in practicality, be done." Harold tapped the paper next to his hand. 

"A young child escapes it's mother's grasp, dashing into the street just as a loaded cart barrels by. A tragic occurrence and one which, even if we tried to change it, there would be a low chance of success. Whereas if that same cart carelessly not maintained, has a faulty tree that snaps; allowing the loose wagon to roll back over a child? That is a situation that _can_ be changed. We have more _time_ to act and prevent what is going to happen."

Finch looked at his companion over his glasses. "Does it make a difference to mankind on a grand scale? No…but that mother keeps her child; the cart driver doesn't go to prison for manslaughter and _three_ lives remain whole." 

Jonathan sank into a nearby chair, his mind reeling with the enormity of Finch's self-imposed task. "Why? What made you decide to even try to change things?"

The aristocrat stirred uncomfortably. He was at heart a very private person, preferring to keep his true emotions hidden from others. He sensed though that the answer he gave Reese would determine if the man stayed to assist him or not. For that reason and the fact that he'd inadvertently caused Jonathan pain, Finch felt compelled to honesty.

"As you have undoubtedly deduced, I come from privileged circumstances. With no onus upon me to ‘learn a trade’, I spent the majority of my life in scholarly pursuits, Mr. Reese. I preferred books and research to interactions with my fellow man. Even my theories on time and how to breach it were initially explored for my own amusement. It wasn't until I lost someone very dear to me that I realized how important other people are… _all_ other people."

"So you decided to use your Machine to help others. Laudable of you and generous,” Reese gestured to the window, indicating the sprawling great city that lay beyond its glass panes, “but you're just one man. How could you possibly even think to accomplish it all?"

Finch fixed Jonathan with a hard stare. "You ascribe too much altruism to my actions, though you're right Mr. Reese. _I_ can't do much at all on my own but perhaps together, _we_ can." His lips twitched as a spark of black humor rose within him.

"I offered you a position, Mr. Reese...I never claimed it would be _easy_."

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

NOTES: Whew! What a monumental work this is becoming. I am amazed at how plotlines for this world and our boys are developing in my mind and on the whole, this has been one of the easiest stories I've attempted to write. I will keep going back to 'FCIP', 'TBD' and of course 'Natural Inclinations' (that blasted camping weekend has to end SOMETIME, lol!)

There will be more smut in future chapters, more actions of a questionable nature, peril, trials and impossible quests of all sorts. To those hardy souls who stick around for the duration, you will be rewarded.

Thanks again to all my readers and to the fandom at large. And again special thank yous to my muses hotch_fan and kmmerc. (bows) Ladies, I couldn't a done it without ya!


	8. Falling Back

Title: Clockwork  
Chapter VIII: Falling Back  
Rating: T to NC-17 (for violence and sexual situations in later chapters)  
Genre: Adventure, AU, Steampunk, Slash, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, OC  
Pairing: Finch/Ingram, Finch/Reese  
Word Count: 1890

NOTES: This chapter opens immediately after the ending of Chapter 8.

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Harold Finch's introduction to the use of his _Machine_ , as Reese saw fit to christen it, was relatively plain. Jonathan recognized the platform he'd been a passenger on less than twenty-four hours prior. His employer had explained that the destination, date and time were set on the main mechanism; the platform's control box only set for the return co-ordinates.

"To avoid the paradox of arriving too close to our starting time, those controls are set for exactly one half-hour after the departure time."

"And how do you arrive at that?"

"It takes five minutes, forty-three seconds for the time device to generate sufficient power to enable an event."

Reese shook his head, his lips twisting. "Really thought this through, haven't you Finch?"

"I cannot impress upon you enough how dangerous this entire venture is, Mr. Reese." The censure in Harold's voice dispelled all traces of Jonathan's levity. 

Reese inclined his head in mute apology and continued to study the mechanism. 

"How far back can you actually go?"

"The longer the time interval between the incident and the trip back to correct it; the longer the time spent in the maelstrom. Due to the adverse effects of prolonged exposure to the maelstrom, I've not weathered a journey back any longer than a fortnight....and that almost killed me."

Finch shuddered, recalling the agony that his body had endured after that misguided trip. The aristocrat's haunted gaze found Jon's.

"You remember how disorienting a journey of ninety minutes was, Mr. Reese? Multiply that ten-thousandfold and you'll have an inkling of how painful a fourteen day leap was." Finch's gaze turned inward, reliving the experience.

"I felt as if the life-essence had been pulled out of me by force. One speaks of being sore following physical activity. Imagine that pain, not confined to a few muscles...but radiating _throughout_ your entire body and brain. Every molecule of my being hurt. It was a full week before I could feed myself again; even lifting an arm was initially beyond my physical capabilities." _Jimson was terrified I should die. Any longer of an interval and I might have._

Indeed if it had not been for the valet's constant care and attention, Harold would have slowly wasted away from sheer exhaustion. 

"The maelstrom does not allow for mistakes, Mr. Reese. So, _on this end_ we make certain all possible preparations and precautions are in place. _Then_ we try to correct what we can."

"I understand, Lord Finch." 

Harold was startled by the respect in both the ex-soldier's tone of voice and his eyes as he regarded his employer. _He comprehends enough to realize the danger inherent in the work....that alone is more than I'd hoped for._

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

_twelve days later_

In the course of assisting with Lord Finch's work, Jonathan Reese had posed as a bank clark, a foreign correspondent for an American newspaper, a street labourer and a police constable. He also, for the first time in his life, truly understood what it meant to be _tired_. Although the actual work itself was no more demanding than most of the covert missions Reese had undertaken during his military service with Colonel Marcus Snow, Jonathan now knew what Finch meant by the maelstrom taking its toll on a person.

Indeed, in the past two weeks he’d found a new level of respect and gratitude towards his employer. Every time Reese had returned to the workroom, both Finch and Jimson had been there waiting for him....with blankets to combat the chill that pervaded him after a jump; towels and washbasins (although by his third trip, Jon’s digestive system had adjusted enough that he was no longer sick afterwards); plying him with cups of honey laden coffee or tea and bowls of soup.

_To think that Lord Finch did what I’m doing with only Jimson to assist. And with the limitations of his body to contend with as well._ Jonathan had seen with his own eyes how the work took it’s toll on the older man. Upon his latest return, Jimson had unceremoniously hauled him off the platform; depositing Reese in a chair before rushing back to help Finch recalibrate the chronometers of both Machine and platform. After a cursory double-check, the aristocrat had donned coat, gloves and goggles. Snatching up a carpetbag, Finch limped to the platform as Jimson threw the main switch.

The great clockwork gears began to revolve, spinning faster and faster as electricity poured into them from the generator. At Finch’s command, the valet closed the circuit to the platform; shouting to Jon to cover his eyes. Platform and scientist vanished in a blaze of white light and Jimson powered down the time travel device. As the cogs slowed to a halt, the valet returned again to the ex-soldier’s side.

“Here Mr. Reese, drink this.”

Jonathan felt his hands being wrapped around a large mug and hugged the crockery cup to his chest; grateful for the warmth seeping into his fingers. He took a gulp of the hot, sweet brew; savoring the taste of mint and chamomile generously laced with brandy.

“What on earth....”

“Lord Finch has gone to deal with another anomaly Mr. Reese. We became aware of it shortly after your departure. As it should prove simple to correct, M’lord chose not to postpone taking care of things.”

“But, he should have let me-”

“No. You have only just returned from your own work. M’lord would not expect you to take another trip through the maelstrom in your condition. That would be foolhardy in the extreme.”

Jonathan nodded, too exhausted to do more than take the occasional sip of his tea. He watched Jimson bustle about the workroom, tidying things up in preparation for Finch’s appearance. The valet left him; returning some time later with a laden tray and the aristocrat’s dressing gown, slippers and another comforter.

Jimson exchanged Jon’s cup for a steaming bowl of broth, encouraging him to eat it and get his strength back. As the workroom clock showed five minutes until the half-hour, Jimson moved to stand by the main power switch. The half-hour chimed....followed by the three quarters and finally the full hour. The valet began to pace; agitation showing on Rob’s face as the servant walked up and down the workroom floor.

“Is this how it is when I’m expected back?”

Jimson paused in mid-pace, turning troubled hazel eyes on Jonathan. “Lord Finch and I are always concerned when you are working, Mr. Reese. You have only been behind your time once...after the gasworks incident.”

Jonathan nodded, recalling he’d put in a full day’s work at ditch-digging in order to uncover a faulty gas pipe in time to prevent an explosion from taking out half of Market Street. His fatigue had caused him to miscalculate his return time, resulting in a delay of fifteen minutes in the present. _Finch gave me the devil and insisted on pre-setting the return time for my next two journeys. Told me to spend the night in the past if I had to, in order to be alert for my trip back._

Reese looked up at the clock...it was now almost a full hour past Finch’s expected return time. Jimson was standing just behind the painted white line that designated the safest minimum distance from the platform arrival space. Only the valet’s taut posture and worried eyes gave any indication of Rob’s agitation.

Jonathan felt recovered enough to go and stand at Jimson’s side. Rob glanced at him and then back to the empty space in front of them.

“He’ll be alright, Jimson. He invented the process after all.” Reese’s voice was quietly reassuring. Jimson nodded a slight smile flitting over the servant’s face.

“I’m sure he will be, Mr. Reese. But that knowledge doesn’t make waiting easier to bear.”

Jon opened his mouth to reply when a rush of wind hit them. Valet and operative alike threw an arm over their eyes as white light flooded the workroom for a second time; the deafening **_CRACK_** of the platform emerging from the maelstrom thrumming in their very bones.

As the light dissipated, a thin figure could be seen slumping to its knees. Jimson reached the aristocrat just in time to keep Finch’s head from connecting with the hardwood floor.

“Lord Finch? M’lord?!!” Jimson cradled the aristocrat’s upper body as Harold clutched at the valet’s arms. “Mr. Reese, bring me the blanket and a cup of tea... _NOW!_ ”

Jon sprinted to gather both items, returning in a trice to hand the cup to Jimson. He draped the blanket over his employer’s body as Rob encouraged Finch to take sips of the hot beverage. Several tense moments passed as Finch began to shiver. The valet tucked the blanket around Harold’s body and looked up at Jon.

“Mr. Reese...we have got to get Lord Finch to his chambers. He’s in no condition to walk and I’m not of sufficient strength to move him. Would you be willing to-”

Jon squatted and placing one arm around the older man’s back and the other behind his knees, stood up. Cradling the unconscious body as if it were the most precious of burdens, Reese followed Rob down from the third floor and into Harold’s suite. 

Jimson directed Jonathan to place their master on the bed and handing over two hot water bottles sent him to the kitchens to fill them. Reese didn’t argue. Rob was Finch’s valet after all and would know best how to care for him.

When he returned, both bottles filled with water just this side of boiling; Jimson had gotten Finch out of his clothes and into a nightshirt. The valet all but snatched the hot water bottles out of Reese’s hands; placing one at the aristocrat’s feet and wrapping the other in a towel and settling it on Finch’s torso. Jon helped Jimson arrange the bedclothes over the thin body, then unasked, collected the two blankets from the workroom.

Rob’s smile of gratitude was recompense enough for the operative’s efforts and they stood at the foot of Finch’s bed, watching as the older man gradually relaxed into sleep. 

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Reese.” Rob’s face fell and the valet studied the carpet for a long moment. “I owe you an apology, Sir.” Jimson’s eyes were filled with regret when at last they met Jon’s.

“I’ve treated you unfairly since your... _altercation_ with Lord Finch. I’ve viewed your actions with suspicion and doubted your motives and for that I am sincerely sorry. You’ve more than proven your loyalty, not just to M’lord’s work but to Lord Finch himself.”

The valet held out an open hand to him. “Your aid was invaluable today and very much appreciated, Mr. Reese.”

“Jonathan...” he replied, taking Jimson’s hand.

“Sir?”

“Please call me Jonathan. We’re in service to the same master, after all.”

Jimson smiled, relief permeating the valet’s features. “Very well, Jonathan. Please feel free to address me as Rob.” The servant looked him over.

“Might I suggest that you retire yourself, Jonathan? You’ve only just returned too.”

Reese nodded and bade the valet good evening. Returning to his rooms, Jon collapsed onto his own bed. He only bothered to remove his shoes before rolling over onto his stomach and slipping into a dreamless sleep.

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**


	9. Interludes

Title: Clockwork  
Chapter IX: Interludes  
Rating: T to NC-17 (for violence and sexual situations in later chapters)  
Genre: Adventure, AU, Steampunk, Slash, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, OC  
Pairing: Finch/Ingram, Finch/Reese  
Word Count: 3450

NOTES: Wherein is contained quiet moments, meaningful conversation and somewhat intimate contact in tight situations.....

 **ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Jonathan Reese woke to find he'd not moved an inch during the night. Rolling over, he glanced out the window. The sun was well up but it was still morning. _I must have slept a good ten hours...FINCH!_

Jon was on his feet in an instant, stripping off his clothing with alacrity; the habit carrying over from his days as a covert operative. Just as he was reaching for a clean shirt, Reese stayed his hand. _Jimson would've roused me if Finch's condition had worsened._ Jon cocked an ear....all was calm in the house, save for the sounds of one person moving about in the workroom; their steps even and unhurried.

Reese turned towards the lavatory. _Time for a bath first I think._ He snorted in amusement.... _How quickly I've become accustomed to the luxury of being clean._ The hot water did wonders for waking him up. As he lathered his hair, Reese’s thoughts drifted back to Finch's dramatic reappearance.

The aristocrat had been heavier than Jon assumed he would be. Finch may be of slight build and stature, but the man’s muscles were like whipcord. Apparently, he'd stayed as active as possible in spite of his injuries. To his surprise, Reese had liked holding Finch very much. The warm weight of his employer’s unresisting body in his arms had felt so....the op chuffed in exasperation, allowing that train of thought to peter out. 

He’d been attracted by Finch’s physical characteristics from the first. The aristocrat’s intelligence, dry humor and charming awkwardness at human interactions had only caused Reese's feelings to deepen. In the past fortnight he’d come to understand the quixotic genius more; begun to see the motivations that drove him to so relentlessly pursue his work. Jon was of similar mein. Harold Finch had been exactly correct in his assessment of Reese’s character. Jonathan _did_ want to help people. It was all he ever _had_ wanted to do. 

He stuck his head underneath the now cooling spray of water. _After all that has happened to me...all the things I’ve seen, that I’ve had to do, I never thought I would find a true home again._ The op knew how incredibly fortunate he’d been to end up in his current situation. To make an overt gesture at this time might put all that in jeopardy. Reese stepped out of the bath, toweling himself down briskly. _I know Finch finds my appearance pleasing but I’ve no cause to think he cares for me in any deeper fashion._

Jonathan dressed and quit his rooms, heading up to the third floor. The sound of running water emanated from Lord Finch’s suite. That the older man was sufficiently recovered enough to bathe was reassuring to Reese. Jon moved on, willing his mind to cease presenting him with traitorous images of Harold’s nude body, glistening wet; soapsuds slipping over his back.

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

The workroom door was ajar and sure enough, Jimson was inside restoring order to the place. The valet looked up. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, although I should say afternoon, almost.” The op hesitated a moment.

“Is-”

"His Lordship is resting, Mi-...Jonathan," the valet quickly amended with a reassuring smile, "and is much improved. Thank you again for your quick thinking and assistance.”

“Anytime I may render such, please allow me to.”

The valet regarded him without comment, as if assessing the op‘s intentions. Reese could see conflicting emotions flitting over Jimson’s features....hope, trust and at last resignation. Rob sighed, hazel eyes almost apologetic as the servant spoke.

“I realize there is much you don’t know about Lord Finch that you wish to.” Rob paused, making certain of Reese's attention.

“You know that I have served M’lord for a number of years. I cannot... _will not_ , break confidence with him at any cost.”

The valet put aside dustpan and hand-broom; moving to stand face to face with the tall man. 

“You understandably have questions; it is only natural that you want to learn as much about Lord Finch as he already knows about you. _Ask_ him. If he wishes to tell you he will. If not,” Jimson shrugged. “That is M’lord’s privilege of course.”

Reese studied the valet. Jimson's loyalty and steadfast belief in Finch and his motives was unshakeable. Having observed Rob’s actions the past three weeks, Jon knew that if the aristocrat had been unworthy of such regard, Jimson would have quit his service long ago. Reese felt an inner prompting towards frankness that was as disquieting as it was irresistible.

“What he does....what _you_ do-”

“Matters?”

“Yes.”

The valet frowned. “No Jonathan....what _we do together_ , matters. You are very much a part of this undertaking. A crucial part.” Jimson’s hand gestured to the mechanical wonder behind them. 

"Before Lord Finch found you, we were limited in we could accomplish. The knowledge of that weighed on him more than you could possibly imagine." Jimson sighed.

"Even with your efforts, we cannot change the outcome of all the events we try to alter...but M'lord is now able to help so many more. Because of _you_ , Mr. Reese."

Agent and valet stood in silence, a deeper level of understanding passing between them. Jimson was the first to break it; the servant's natural instincts coming to the fore.

“Tomorrow will be given over to maintenance on the time device. A loose spring on the platform chronometer was the cause of M'lord's delayed return. As it needs to be repaired, Lord Finch has decided to inspect all of the device's systems." Rob paused, retrieving broom and pan. 

"In the meantime, the room needs to be cleared and cleaned."

"I would be pleased to help."

The valet passed over a shopkeeper’s apron and smiling as Reese donned the protective garment. Together they removed the few pieces of furniture and loose tools from the workroom; sweeping and polishing the floor afterwards until it was spotless. 

"Nothing more is required now." Operative and valet left the workroom, talking quietly as they descended the staircase to the second floor. 

"Lord Finch had intended you to spend the day at your leisure. He is not conducting business himself as tomorrow's work will involve long hours and much labor. I will be preparing dinner soon. M'lord will be eating in his rooms, would you care for me to bring a tray up to you as well?"

"I'll see to my own food, Rob but thank you."

Jimson nodded and continued down to the kitchen.

Jonathan turned and headed for his own rooms, wishing to wash up. Finch's door was half-open and, remembering Rob's words, Reese moved as quietly as he could to avoid disturbing his employer.

"Mr. Reese?"

Jon stepped just inside the aristocrat's doorframe. "Lord Finch?"

"If you might spare a moment, would you come in please?" Harold, wrapped in his dressing gown, indicated the chair opposite him.

"Of course, M'lord." Reese sat down, hands clasping his knees to hide his confusion. He couldn't imagine why Finch would want to converse with him.

Sensing his employee's unease, Harold smiled. "I understand from Jimson that you were instrumental in returning me to my rooms yesterday, Mr. Reese. I wanted to thank you for your co-operation. We are both very appreciative."

"I could not have done otherwise, Lord Finch." Jonathan's surprise was paramount. At the look of inquiry the aristocrat leveled at him, Reese continued.

"Are we not all needed? Yourself in particular M'lord. As for being of assistance….the debt I owe to you, Finch is greater than I could ever hope to repay." Reese shook his head as the older man started to object.

"I don't mean in regards to my salary or lodging….I've worked harder the last fortnight than I ever have in my life _and_ I've never been happier in my work, _ever_." Jon's eyes shone as he continued.

"What we do makes a difference...helps people. It saves lives. Not under the auspices of a government protecting its assets but to actually give someone a second chance at life. Doing so gave me a second chance. Thank you, Lord Finch.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Jon's expression was one of complete conviction.

“For giving me a job.”

"Mr. Reese……" 

Finch was taken aback. The sincerity of Jonathan's words was not to be doubted. True when the man first came to the aristocrat's notice Harold assumed that he would be a capable and reliable agent, if he could be persuaded to Finch's cause. Harold had been ecstatic to see Reese readily accept the concept of time travel and then wholeheartedly embrace the work with the passion he himself did. The aristocrat felt an unaccustomed warmth well up within his chest and met Jonathan’s hesitant smile with one of his own. 

A quiet knock on the doorframe roused both men out of their reverie. Jimson entered, setting a large tray of food on the table between them. Reese made to stand up.

“I’ll leave you to your meal, M’lord.”

“I took the liberty of bringing enough up for two, Lord Finch. Shall I lay an extra place?”

“By all means, Jimson.” Harold glanced at his employee. “If you care to stay that is, Mr. Reese.”

Jonathan nodded, settling back into his chair. 

Jimson set out plates and cutlery, arranging various covered serving dishes and then quit the room; the murmurings of renewed conversation following the valet out the door. It wasn’t until Rob was halfway down the stairs that the domestic felt free to indulge in a smug smile.

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Jonathan Reese blotted perspiration from his brow with an upper arm; both hands being occupied with steadying the left side of a heavy brass gear. Jimson had not exaggerated in regards to the effort required to maintain the Machine. Finch requested they begin work promptly at eight o'clock that morning (an hour Reese thought to be unreasonably early). It was now nearly two in the afternoon and they still had much left to do.

Finch himself was inspecting every square inch of the device; employing a series of miniature brushes and woolen pads soaked in mineral spirits to remove all traces of dust and grit from the bowels of the Machine. Harold had traded spectacles for a pair of jeweler’s loupes set in wire frames and fraction by painstaking fraction he, Reese and Jimson cleaned the behemoth.

The aristocrat called a halt to their labours as the clock chimed the hour. Finch stepped away from the main flywheel, allowing Reese and Jimson to place a clean canvas tarpaulin over the worksite. Removing the magnifying lenses, Harold rubbed his eyes and donned his customary glasses.

“I think a brief respite from our task is in order.”

Jonathan nodded, shaking out his hands and stretching his fingers one by one to ease the soreness in his muscles.

“There is a selection of cold foods in the pantry, M’lord. The roast I’ve planned for this evening should be done just as we complete our work.”

“Excellent Rob, thank you. A casual bite in the kitchen and then some time off our feet will rejuvenate us sufficiently to carry on.” Turning, the aristocrat led the way out of the room, his limp even more pronounced than usual.

Jon and Rob shared a glance, their expressions reflecting one another’s concern for Finch’s condition. Jimson shrugged, _he will do what must be done..._ the valet’s gesture clearly said. Reese nodded and they followed their master down to the kitchen.

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

_In all my imaginings of how today might unfold, I never would have pictured myself lying side by side with Finch underneath his cursed creation...._

The fact John Reese was in _exactly_ that position now seemed doubly surreal to him. Yet here he was, flat on his back, cheek to jowl with Finch as the aristocrat fiddled with part of what he called the lubrication system. Thin copper tubing traveled from the base of a reservoir at the front of the Machine down to the turbine junction. The motion of the crankshaft during its operation caused a siphon effect; pulling oil a drop at a time out of the tube and onto the spinning rod, ensuring it functioned smoothly. 

This section had developed a weak spot, which Finch was now dealing with. Harold was preparing to cut the faulty portion of copper out of the line when his hand slipped.

**_“Blast!”_**

Oil spattered down onto his face, coating the lenses of his spectacles and forcing him to spit out the foul stuff. Finch dropped the cutters onto his chest and plugged the hole with his thumb, stopping the flow of oil but bringing his abilities to correct the situation to a standstill.

“Wait Finch...”

Harold felt Jon’s hands on his temples, gently removing his glasses.

“What are you-”

“Hold on, I’ll clean them up for you.” Reese stuck his hand out from beneath the Machine. “Jimson? Would you hand me two rags, one coated with solvent, the other dry?”

“Here Mr. Reese.”

Taking his time, Jon carefully wiped down each lens; first with solvent to clean away the oil, then polishing them with the dry rag.

Harold's face warmed. He was blind as a bat and unable to move his hands for fear of being drowned in oil....essentially helpless. He could feel the line of Reese’s body pressing against his side, the op's arm touching his as the man cleaned his spectacles. It made Finch think of other situations...and other _activities_ they might be engaged in.

“There’s oil on your nose.” Reese shifted, rolling over to face Harold; his groin pressing against the aristocrat’s hip as he wiped Finch’s face clean. Jonathan had to reach around the upraised arms, almost in an embrace to re-affix Finch’s glasses in place.

Harold blinked as the world fell back into focus, a quiet sigh of relief escaping him.

“Better?”

Finch looked up to see Jon grinning at him.

“Yes...thank you Mr. Reese.” Harold studied the copper tubing above his head. 

“Although as in the case of the boy with his finger in the dyke, I seem to be in a bit of a quandary as to how to proceed.”

Jonathan turned his head to look, giving Finch a close up view of the back of his neck. Harold inhaled the faint tang of sweat tinged with a hint of the cologne Reese favored. He felt his heart speed up as his mind recalled memories of their encounter in the library and of his actions afterward.

"I've an idea, if you're willing to deal with a few minutes of minor discomfort."

"I'm all ears, Mr. Reese…they're about the only part of my person still useful at the moment." 

Jonathan looked back at his employer, a smile at Finch's dry comment gracing his features. 

"I can plug the leak while you repair the tube but…"

"Yes?"

"I'll have to be behind you, or in this case, beneath you." Jon's tone was apologetic. 

Harold sighed again. _Of course there would be no easy solution to this situation. It will be a highly irregular position to be sure but only myself, Reese and Jimson are here to bear witness to it…I'm certain our reputations will survive the experience._

"I see no other alternative, Mr. Reese. How do you suggest we go about repositioning ourselves?"

"Can you lift your head, enough for me to get my shoulder under it? Once you're there, I can shift you the rest of the way. Then we may switch hands."

"Very well…." Harold stifled a grunt of pain as he lifted his stiff neck. At once Jonathan's hand reached out to support his abused vertebrae. Finch eased a fraction as the op helped raise his head, gently positioning it on his own broad shoulder.

"Give me a second to figure out how best to do this."

"At your convenience, Mr. Reese." Finch was very conscious of the fact that he could now feel Jonathan's heart beating against his spine. Both men had forgone waistcoats and Reese's skin was separated from Harold's by just two thin layers of linen.

"Just let me do the work. One, two…three!"

Strong hands gripped Finch's waist and the aristocrat shivered. Reese's physical power emphasized Harold's vulnerability but he was oddly unafraid. _I feel safe, protected and…._ Finch swallowed as the flush on his cheeks spread down to warm his belly.

As effortlessly as if the aristocrat were a doll, Jonathan Reese raised Harold's lower body into the air; slipping his own underneath before easing Finch's frame down onto his chest. Finch’s legs splayed open, his heels dropping down to rest against the floor. In spite of the awkwardness of things, the position relieved some of the stress on his injured hip and Harold's body began to relax. Reese let go of his pelvis and Finch found himself well and truly cradled as Jon's arms pressed against his; the op's hands overlaying Harold's in preparation for the change out. 

"Alright Mr. Reese, rest your left index finger next to mine...good. Now as I slide my finger to the side, push yours and...yes! That's got it." Finch let his arm drop to the floor, groping blindly.

"Left pocket, there's a clean rag there."

Carefully Harold wriggled his hand into Reese's pocket, very aware of the firm thigh beneath his seeking fingers. At last he found the dust cloth and managed to get most of the excess oil off his extremity. 

He picked up the cutters and took his time examining the damaged area above him. _I should only need to take out a few inches and.... **oh**!_ Harold felt a warmth on the back of his neck. Jonathan's nose was practically behind his ear and the op's exhalations were tickling his nape. 

Finch rigidly suppressed a shiver of arousal. It wouldn't do for his employee to realize how much their enforced closeness was affecting Harold. 

"You alright Finch?"

"Yes...here's what I need you to do."

Jon followed the aristocrat's directions, keeping just enough of his focus on their task to do so. The remainder of his attention was engaged in cataloguing how pleasant the weight of Finch's body felt; on delighting in the faint scent of lime cream rising from Finch's scalp and the way the hairs on Finch's arms brushed against his skin as they continued their work. In fact, he realized he was enjoying it too much when he felt himself begin to stiffen. _Oh hell.....there's no possible way he won't notice this._ Reese tried to turn his thoughts to his time in the army, even going so far as to recall his missions for Colonel Snow. 

The sterile pictures conjured by his brain, however were not enough to overcome such powerful sensory stimuli. He was practically _drowning_ in Harold...Reese could no more stop his body's response than he could refrain from drawing breath. Jon didn't say a word nor give in to the temptation to arch his hips into his employer's back. With any luck, Harold would dismiss it as an involuntary reaction and not remark upon it.

Finch became aware of Reese's 'condition' almost as an afterthought; most of his concentration being fixed upon the repair. When he realized what the warm stiffness pressing into his lower back was, Harold swallowed. All his focus now turned to the man he was resting on. Jon's breathing had deepened, his heart rate increased and Finch could feel a faint tremor along Reese's frame. _Not from fear...from desire? For me?!_

The scientist in Finch rose to the occasion, insisting on testing his hypothesis. In the guise of adjusting his handhold on the tubing, Harold shifted his hips. Reese's intake of breath was so quiet Finch almost missed it. The involuntary twitch in Jon's penis however was unmistakable. _Oh God, what do I?_ Harold took a deep breath, his hands continuing to work of their own volition. _There is nothing **to** be done now. We will complete the repairs and things will go on as they are. Reese is my employee, I didn't hire him to be a companion._

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

That evening found Jimson pacing the kitchen like a caged tiger. The valet had seen the faces of both men when they emerged from beneath the Machine.....hadn't missed the furtive looks that Reese had thrown at Finch the rest of the afternoon, nor those of the recluse in return.

Rob had known since Reese's first journey into the past that Finch was attracted to his new employee; a fact that Jimson had been dubious of in the beginning. Now after their conversations, Rob was convinced that Jonathan felt the same way about their master and that his intentions were honorable. If they hadn't been, Reese would have attempted to seduce the older man weeks ago. 

Both men had requested dinner in their separate rooms, not speaking other than to offer a 'thank you' and 'your welcome' for their shared labours on the time device. The normally unflappable valet growled in frustration. Jimson could see plain as day where things were headed....if Finch and Reese would just open their eyes to it themselves. Rob sighed, opting for the moment to do what most in the valet's position would under the circumstances. 

On the positive side of things, Lord Finch's silver had never shone more brightly. 

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

NOTES: Sorry to leave everyone proverbially 'hanging'...okay, so I'm not, lol! But there is always angst amidst the calm before the storm. Serious things are afoot in the next couple of chapters, so stay tuned. 

Also, I've really enjoyed the writing I get to do for this setting/time period. The more formal dialogue and descriptions may seem stilted but they are similar to writings of the time (which is the feel I was going for). The challenge of trying to keep our 'boys' in character, while keeping to the Victorian style is fun and I hope you're enjoying it.


	10. Continuity Disruptions

Title: Clockwork  
Chapter X: Continuity Disruptions  
Rating: T to NC-17 (for violence and sexual situations in later chapters)  
Genre: Adventure, AU, Steampunk, Slash, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, OC  
Pairing: Finch/Ingram, Finch/Reese  
Word Count: 2280 

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Life at Plover House returned to more or less normal over the next few weeks. That is to say the incidents in the workroom were not spoken of; Reese and Finch continued their attempts to correct events and Jimson suppressed any residual annoyance towards both men's' stubbornness. The valet soldiered on, looking after master and operative with the same attention detail Rob always had. Jimson did cast about for subtle methods to bring the aristocrat and Jonathan together whenever possible.

Today for example was a rare afternoon when no anomaly could be found, regardless of how diligently all three residents of Lord Finch’s household searched. The newspapers were devoid of tragedy; an occurrence to be lauded for the sake of the general populace but one which found the scientist and his employees at loose ends.

Never loathe to waste an opportunity, Rob made good use of the time and produced a proper full tea for them. Harold had been delighted at the assortment of savouries and sweet pastries Jimson provided. Reese for his own part was a bit intimidated by the silver and formality of things until Finch’s relaxed smile reassured him. 

“You haven’t made cucumber sandwiches in ages, Rob.” Harold helped himself to several of the round dainties. 

“I don’t often have the time to make fresh mayonnaise, M’lord.” Jimson nodded in thanks. “I hope the hint of lemon is to your liking...”

“It’s perfection!” 

Reese eyed the bite-sized morsels in disbelief before sampling one. His grunt of pleased surprise startled aristocrat and valet into laughter. Swallowing, Jonathan grinned at them. 

“Well, I _am_ a low-born American soldier.”

“One who has passed for both cockney and nobility however, Mr. Reese.”

"And one whose duties seldom included tea and cakes."

"All the more reason to enjoy them when they appear." 

Lord Finch's amused rejoinder caused a spurt of warmth to well up in Jonathan. This was the most relaxed Finch had been with him since their overhaul of the time device. _M'lord is almost effusive...well as much as he will allow himself to be._

Rob finished serving and turned towards the kitchen.

“Jimson, will you join us?”

“My Lord?” The valet looked at him in puzzlement.

“A bit of respite for _all_ of us would be conducive, don't you agree?”

Jimson paused, turning a glance of mock disapproval upon the aristocrat. 

"Am I to assume that you are choosing to dispense with proprieties again, M'lord?"

"Yes."

Rob uttered a small sigh of acquiescence before nodding. “Very well Lord Finch.” The valet quit the room, returning in a moment with another cup and saucer.

In spite of Jimson's reluctance to be included, once seated the valet seemed completely at home. Master and servant rambled on a variety of conversational subjects as Reese continued to make inroads on the food, listening in bemused silence as his companions chatted away.

_Just when I think I've adjusted at last to this unorthodox household, valet and aristocrat sit down to tea together._ Reese thought, even as he appreciated the increased level of trust that he now enjoyed with Harold Finch. The older man had thawed considerably with his new employee; opening the oysterish shell of his privacy enough to allow Jonathan brief glimpses of the man within.

_The more Jon learned about Finch, the more he'd come to like him; which only resulted in a deepening of his attraction to Harold. Reese hadn't dared to put Rob's suggestion of asking Finch about himself into action yet but here and there the man had dropped a stray fact or two during their infrequent discussions of generalities. Jonathan had treated the remarks casually at their mention; hoarding each bit of knowledge as a treasured gem._

_Days when Finch would be almost unable to move due to the pain of his old injuries made Jon desperate to be of help. The need to soothe Harold's neck and hip with his own hands came close to overwhelming Reese at times. In the dark hours of early morning, the op would picture himself and Finch touching; holding one another, legs tangled in the sheets of Harold's large bed. Such activities had occurred so often of late that Jonathan had taken to rinsing his nightshirts out in his own bathroom._

When Harold leaned forward to ask for Reese's opinion on the topic of horses, Jonathan started out of his reverie.

"I beg your pardon, Lord Finch my mind was turned on something else."

"I'd wager its wandering is the result of too little sleep."

His employer's dry tone made Jon's cheeks burn. "I...that is.." _How could he possibly know about that?_

"It's nothing to be ashamed of Mr. Reese. We've all had less hours of rest than we truly need."

"Yes….you're right of course."

"In any case as I was asking before, do you ride?"

"I know how, if that is what you mean. I admit I've had little chance to since my arrival in England."

Finch nodded. "Understandable of course. Do you enjoy it?"

"For pleasure? Yes, I like horses and I miss getting the chance to ride out."

Harold positively beamed. "Capital! I make an annual sojourn to my holdings in Scotland. The grounds are not grandiose but I do boast some of the best trails and jumps in the area. I'd be very pleased to have you accompany us there this year."

"And the Machine?" Jonathan was frankly surprised.

Finch's happiness dimmed. "It is a necessary hiatus, Mr. Reese. You have experienced yourself how demanding our work is." His eyes grew serious. "Without that fortnight of separation, we would drive ourselves into the ground and be able to no longer help anyone at all."

Reese was chagrined to have presumed to chastise the man. He _did_ understand what Harold was saying. Without a break of some sort, they would burn out or become careless from sheer fatigue and therefore more prone to accidents. "I should like very much to go. Thank you for the opportunity."

The shy smile was back and for that sight alone, Jon would have moved mountains. 

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

_"Part of me cannot believe 'the day' has arrived at last!"_

_"Are you entirely certain that this mysterious man even exists dearest?"_

_The young man laughed, placing a thick envelope into his portfolio. "That is one thing in all this I **am** sure of. My agents have made inquiries. His family is listed in Burke's,....has estates up north, vineyards in Italy and owns several businesses in London."_

_He smiled at his wife. "As it turns out, they have a residence here too. That seems the likeliest place to start with."_

_"Well, I for one will be pleased to see that letter finally delivered. The onus of it has hung over our heads for ages it seems."_

_William laughed again, reaching out to catch her around the waist and holding her close to his chest._

_"No more than I , Theresa my love." He gave his wife a sound kiss, smirking as she returned his gesture. "It has been a long six years and this is the last burden I have to deal with. The instructions were very clear: no contact with the beneficiary prior to the delivery of said letter. Absolutely no interactions afterward."_

_"Then,"_

_"After today....it ends."_

_William consulted his pocketwatch, grimacing as he realized he was close to his time. "And on that note, I must go."_

_"Come home soon and we'll celebrate."_

_The man shrugged into his overcoat and gave his wife a saucy wink. "My feet shall have wings."_

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

A loud double-knock sounded at the front door. Jimson’s, Finch’s and Reese’s heads all snapped up simultaneously in the direction of the hallway; turned towards one another, then back again to the source of the renewed knocking.

Recovering at once, Jimson rose to answer the summons. Reese stepped up to close the study door then exited the room via the servant’s passage. Left to his own devices, Lord Finch made an effort to tidy his appearance; straightening his tie and smoking jacket and mentally cursing the fact that he would have to receive his unknown visitor in carpet slippers.

Harold turned at the sound of the servant’s door opening again and sighed in relief at the sight of Jonathan Reese with a pair of the aristocrat’s boots in his hands. Nodding his thanks, Finch allowed Jon to switch out his footwear; patently ignoring the fact that the op hid said slippers beneath a settee cushion. The aristocrat returned to his paper, Reese’s stolid presence behind his chair a surprising source of comfort to the older man.

When Jimson returned to the room, the valet’s face reflected barely concealed confusion. Finch regarded his servant with some interest.

“Rob? What-”

“There’s a solicitor here to see you, M’lord....”

"A solicitor?"

“Yes, My Lord....he stated it is regarding an inheritance due to you.”

“Very well, show him in please.”

Jimson opened the door again and ushered their unknown guest into the study. In walked a clean-cut, earnest looking young man with dark eyes and hair of that indeterminate shade between blond and brunet. His clothing was of good quality and conservative cut. There seemed to be something vaguely familiar about him and Finch, for reasons he could not explain, felt an instant liking for him.

The man gave a half-bow and when he spoke, Harold's sense of having met him before increased tenfold.

"Good afternoon sir. Might I inquire if you are in fact Lord Finch? Harold Copernicus Finch?”

“I am sir, yes.” Finch inclined his head but didn’t deign to rise. “Might I have the pleasure of knowing the name of the man who is already conversant with my own?”

The young man smiled in apology. “Yes....yes of course Lord Finch. The excitement of the circumstances has robbed me of all attention to courtesies. My name is Ingram, William Nathanial Ingram.”

Finch swallowed, clearly struggling to hide his distress. Reese’s eyes darted between Jimson, who was standing rigidly at attention, hands curling into fists, and Harold. The name meant something to both of them but for the life of him Jonathan had no idea what.

“And what brings you to my home, Mr. Ingram?”

“The execution of a bequest in my late father’s will, My Lord.” William opened the portfolio he carried and rifled through the papers. Finding the document in question, he turned to the appropriate page. 

“My father, Nathan Ingram, passed away six years ago. He had always been in less than the best of health and his various complaints caught up with him at last.” The young man's eyes were full of frank curiosity. 

"In addition to our blood relationship, I was also my father's solicitor and the executor of his will. The execution of its final bequest is what I have come to see you about."

Finch had managed to get his emotions under cursory control and his curiosity as what Nathan could have wanted him to have came to the forefront. Obviously, William knew nothing about Ingram's history or indeed of Harold or he would have greeted the aristocrat more warmly.

"My valet indicated that it was in regards to an inheritance due me?"

"Yes Lord Finch. My father was always deeply interested in scholarly pursuits, most specifically the fields of science and history. Although I do not know precisely what the papers he wanted you to have contain, I would wager that you yourself are a fellow dillitante in such subjects…that he must have come across your name in those circles and in the interest of assisting another scholar thought these would be worthy of your attention."

"Well, that seems to be a plausible enough explanation. May I see these 'papers'?"

William frowned. "Before I pass them into your custody, there is a codicil that must be observed. My father was also an eccentric, fiercely protective of his privacy. He insisted that today be the only time we come in contact with one another. After I conclude my business with you, you will never see me again. I will not leave you my card for those reasons."

Ingram pulled out a three page document and produced a fountain pen from his pocket. "You will receive his papers only if you agree to these terms and sign this statement of acceptance beforehand."

"I understand Mr. Ingram. Jimson, will you bring over the inkwell?"

Rob fetched the small crystal phial from Harold's corner desk, placing on the table at the aristocrat's elbow. Finch reached out for the document and at William's direction, signed and dated each page. When it was done, Ingram handed over a large envelope and stood up.

"Thank you for your time, Lord Finch. I hope the information contained in those papers proves fruitful for your lines of research."

Finch nodded. "Thank you Mr. Ingram, Jimson will see you out."

William gave another half bow and followed Rob out of the study. 

Harold sat silent, the envelope clutched in his hands as he struggled to make sense of the bizarre scene he'd just been a participant in.

Rob returned and, standing by the study door, stared at Finch. Anxiety was written all over the valet's face.

"My Lord?"

"Leave me Jimson….Mr. Reese, please go with Rob."

Jimson made no protest. Rob motioned to the op and turning, quit the room with Reese in tow.

Once they were upstairs Jonathan stopped the valet, his gaze hard. "What was that all about?"

Rob's own eyes were sad. "I'm not at liberty to say, Mr. Reese but we both must keep a close watch on Lord Finch these next few days. I daresay he's going to need us."

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**


	11. Broken Spring

Title: Clockwork  
Chapter XI: Broken Spring  
Rating: T to NC-17 (for violence and sexual situations in later chapters)  
Genre: Adventure, AU, Steampunk, Slash, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, OC  
Pairing: Finch/Ingram, Finch/Reese  
Word Count: 1500

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

_"Thank you for your time, Lord Finch. I hope the information contained in those papers proves fruitful for your lines of research."_

_Finch nodded. "Thank you Mr. Ingram, Jimson will see you out."_

_William gave another half bow and followed Rob out of the study._

_Harold sat silent, the envelope clutched in his hands as he struggled to make sense of the bizarre scene he'd just been a participant in._

_Rob returned and, standing by the study door, stared at Finch. Anxiety was written all over the valet's face._

_"My Lord?"_

_"Leave me Jimson….Mr. Reese, please go with Rob."_

_Jimson made no protest. Rob motioned to the op and turning, quit the room with Reese in tow._

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Finch sat staring into the fire, silent and unmoving as the light from its flames reflected off his spectacles. His mind, perpetually active to the point of leaving him unable to sleep most evenings, had suddenly switched off...Harold could form no coherent thoughts. It was as if he floated numbly in a cerebral haze; the mists of shock and disbelief wrapping choking tendrils about him until he was rendered dumb and blind, trapped within himself. 

After what seemed an eternity Finch blinked, sucking in a great breath of air as his body began to tremble. He looked down at the envelope, willing himself to calm enough so that he might open it without tearing the precious pages.

The aristocrat unfolded the parchment sheets and began to read. 

 

_**May 23, 1854** _

_**My Dearest Harold;** _

__

_**First, before I speak of anything else, you must understand that I would never have left you of my own volition. Irregardless of any peril, I would always choose to stand at your side and remain close in your regard. To be separated from you, especially in the manner which I have been, has caused me unendurable sorrow.** _

_**My life, the very reason for my being has been severed from me and I am as injured by the rending of our bond as I would be had I lost an arm or leg. The fact that I am still physically in London makes the situation all the worse. It’s as if I glimpse you through a crowd and am perpetually running; unable to catch you up....doomed to failure because it is decades, not distance that parts us.** _

_**As you know at this point, I did not die nor abandon you. I was sent back in time, thirty-two years to be precise. One of the authors of my unwanted trip through the maelstrom is known to you; Denton Weeks and yes the irony of that is not lost upon me. If I could lay hands on the bastard now I would strangle him but alas in my reality he is a mere stripling of twenty and gadding his way around the world on his parents' money.** _

_**Weeks cleverly baited his trap by appealing to my natural wish to protect and care for you. He claimed to want to 'bury the hatchet' at last and contacted me to discuss arranging a meeting with you to do so. Naïve fool that I was, I believed his sincerity and, knowing the painful history between himself and our most estimable Rob, I wanted to help there as well.** _

_**The actual means of my being sent backward in time were due to the machinations of one Mr. Greer. Weeks never did divulge his given name. Greer had developed his own device for breaching time and used it on me. His methods are much less refined than ours. Although he sent me back farther than we have attempted to do so as yet, the effects of such a leap have had detrimental and lasting impacts on my health. I find myself aged at least ten years from what you last saw me as. In addition, my vigor has been drained. I tire so easily now and indeed am a mere shadow of my former self.** _

_**Whether or not I am able to return to the time and the man that I belong to, I will always love you. I wish you well, von ganzem Herzen. You remain as precious to me as ever. I beg you extend one favour to me. Do not close yourself off from the one person who might offer you solace Harold....let Rob aid you through this. Our Jimson understands you better even than I, Liebling and will know best how to be of assistance.** _

_**Mit Herzlichen Grüßen;** _

_**Nathan** _

Harold stood up, pages slipping from his nerveless fingers to scatter on the parlour carpet. _Three years....three years of assuming Nathan to be dead, murdered no less...._ and now, to know that he had in fact been forcibly sent into the past. 

_"God damn you Weeks!"_

_That Nathan had grown old and died in this city while I went about my own life, oblivious....to realize that had I but known, had he only approached me I could have prevented this somehow!_

Finch collapsed back into his chair, shaking uncontrollably from the reaction of what he'd just discovered. _I can't think....he's dead now....dead these six years, it's too late to-_

Harold's eyes locked onto the fallen sheets. He reached down and snatching up the last of them looked closely at Nathan's closing. _THERE!!! He included the street name and it's just north of Primrose Hill! I can get him back, I need-_

Finch gathered up the remaining pages of Ingram's missive and limped over to the study door, wrenching it open.

"JIMSON!!"

"My Lord?" Rob bounded down the staircase at once, Reese hard on the valet's heels as they met Finch face to face in the main hallway. Harold's expression was bordering on maniacal.

"Rob, get upstairs and begin preparations for a jump." The aristocrat plucked at his servant's sleeve. "Nathan was sent back in time against his will."

"But, M'lord-"

"Look!" Harold pointed to the letter in his hand. "There's no time to explain everything but suffice it to say that we have the means to retrieve him."

Jonathan scanned the top sheet, his eyes widening as he read the date on it.

"Finch, I think-"

"My Lord, perhaps it would be best to-"

"Don't you both understand?!" Harold's veneer of composure cracked as he brandished the ancient letter. 

_"Nathan is alive!_ I have the date he wrote this....the address that he was living at. _I can bring him back!!_ ” The aristocrat moved towards the stairs.

Reese stood firm, his powerful frame blocking Finch's progress. "No, you can't....that letter was written _thirty years ago_." 

He desperately tried to catch his employer's eyes. Finch refused to look at him, refused to even consider the ramifications of such a jump through the maelstrom. He _had_ to get to Nathan...nothing else mattered now. 

" _Please_ Sir," the valet stepped up beside Jonathan; hands outstretched as the servant pleaded with the aristocrat, "for once I am in agreement with Mr. Reese. You're acting rashly, don't do this!"

"Nathan did and he survived! The proof is in my hand!"

"Nathan was younger than you and whole, M'lord! A back-step of that magnitude would _kill_ you!" Jimson blurted out, fear overriding the servant’s usual tact.

Harold Finch was outraged. It was understandable, if still not acceptable, that Reese might oppose him; the man was only his employee and new to that after all, but for _**Rob**_ to do so was unconscionable. _Jimson is my servant not my keeper and it's time to re-establish that fact!_

"How dare you?" Finch didn’t shout but the icy disapproval in his tone cut the valet more deeply than the lash of a whip. 

" _You presume to challenge me, disparage me?_ You forget your place Rob Jimson and _who_ is master of this house." 

The aristocrat moved forward; fists balled up at his sides as if he wished to strike Rob. Jimson remained unmoving; but the servant seemed to diminish in stature before Reese’s eyes. Finch turned his back on them both, crossing his arms and speaking to the far wall.

"Take yourself from this room and do not return to my sight until _I_ call for you....when I do so, it will be to inform you if I deign to allow you to keep your situation."

The valet's face had gone chalk-white during the aristocrat's tirade. Never in the time Rob had served him had the recluse spoken in this manner. Jimson bowed deeply to Finch then departed in silence.

"What the hell, Finch?1"

The smaller man turned on his employee. “And as for you Mr. Reese, you have no ri-”

“I have _every_ right to keep you from destroying yourself!” Jon was furious.

“Without you Finch, _everything stops_...don't you understand that?! You’re the only person in the world who can operate your creation.” Reese’s eyes burned with anger. “If you think I'm going to stand idly by and watch you throw your life away needlessly, then you’re an even bigger fool than you just showed yourself to be.”

“Jimson is trying to safeguard you, the same as I am. _Seven_ years Rob's been with you and you just cast that aside?" Jonathan stormed out, pausing in the doorway just long enough to stare coldly at Finch again. 

"If I were Jimson, I'd walk out of here now and not look back!"

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**


	12. Revelations

Title: Clockwork  
Chapter XI: Revelations  
Rating: T to NC-17 (for violence and sexual situations in later chapters)  
Genre: Adventure, AU, Steampunk, Slash, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, OC  
Pairing: Finch/Ingram, Finch/Reese  
Word Count: 1795

NOTES: Cry havoc and let the angst-fest begin! 

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

_“Without you Finch, everything stops...don't you understand that?! You’re the only person in the world who can operate your creation.” Reese’s eyes burned with anger._

_“If you think I'm going to stand idly by and watch you throw your life away needlessly, then you’re an even bigger fool than you just showed yourself to be. Jimson is trying to safeguard you, the same as I am. Seven years Rob's been with you and you just cast that aside?" Jonathan stormed out, pausing in the doorway just long enough to stare coldly at Finch again._

_"If I were Jimson, I'd walk out of here now and not look back!"_

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

Reese followed after Jimson, catching up with Rob in the valet’s rooms. A carpetbag sat open on the bed. Rob was occupied pulling clothing out of drawers and wardrobe. Jonathan stepped up to the valet’s side.

"Are you leaving then?"

Jimson frowned. "No. Regardless of the circumstances, I would never abandon my position." The valet continued to pack. "I do, however believe in being prepared for _eventualities_." The hazel eyes were somber as they met Jon's own. 

"If I _am_ to be dismissed, then I should prefer to leave at once." Rob's voice faltered and the servant took a deep breath before continuing. "It is less….. _humiliating_ than having to gather one's belongings after being let go."

Reese watched in silence. He could tell by the stiffness in Rob's shoulders that although hurting, the valet stubbornly refused to give in to despair. Jon thought back to his first days at Plover House and his initial impressions of Jimson. He admired Rob for the fierce loyalty the domestic focused entirely towards their mercurial master; moreover he _liked_ Jimson. The understanding they’d come to in recent months had been one based on mutual respect and the common bond of their shared devotion to Finch. When he spoke again, it was with calm deliberation.

"If he sacks you, then I will resign."

The valet's eyes went wide. _"You will do NO such thing!"_ Rob's tone was one pure outrage and the servant turned on him in fury. "You can't, Mr. Reese!"

"Why not?"

"He needs you! No-one else can do your job, you can't leave him!"

"He needs _you_ too, Jimson!" Jon scowled. "You are irreplaceable, more so than I."

"That is not true, Mr. Reese." The valet's anger dissipated abruptly. "Any employment agent's office you frequent in London will have at least a dozen candidates for my position that can do it just as well, if not better than I….and would be more appropriate to serve Lord Finch."

"I know the limitations of my skills, Jonathan." Rob sighed, one hand plucking idly at the carpetbag’s nap.

"Lord Finch has borne the brunt of no few of his peers' ridicule for employing me. His reputation would be better off if I were to go."

"But _I_ however, would not…."

Both of them started, turning to look over their shoulders. Finch stood in the doorway, his eyes sad. "I should like a word with my valet Mr. Reese, if you please."

Jonathan stared at the man, divining that his anger had cooled at least and that he would do nothing to wound Rob further. "Yes sir." He walked out, closing the door behind him.

The aristocrat regarded the person who, other than Nathan, he'd been the closest to in his adult life. The valet stared into the middle distance, making no attempt to speak. This suited Finch just fine as he was the one now compelled to explain his actions.

"I have done you a great disservice, Jimson. I allowed pride and anger to over-ride my common sense…. Worse than that, I chose the one person most undeserving of it to be the target for my frustrations."

"Lord Finch, I-"

_"Please Robin…"_

Jimson fell silent. In all the time she'd been with him, Finch had never before used her given name in full. 

"For seven years you've cared for me, helped me in my work…good lord, you know what I want and need even before _I_ do. You've asked for nothing, ever…and given me _everything_ in return; devotion, loyalty and more than a small measure of affection, undeserving of those things though I am."

He limped over to the valet and placed his hands on her shoulders. "You've saved my life twice over. You are far more than my servant Robin, you've become my family. Don’t leave. If you can bear it, if you can forgive my arrogance and foolishness, then please stay. I beg you." 

"I don't want to leave Lord Finch." The eyes that met his left Harold startled by the depth of sorrow they reflected.

_"Rob...."_

"We're already hurting from Mr. Ingram's loss. To lose _you_ as well, M'lord? I couldn't bear it." Jimson desperately explained, ducking her head to avoid breaking down further.

Finch's heart contracted, realizing at last how hard Nathan's disappearance had been on Rob. For the first time he drew her into an embrace, holding her close.   
"Oh Robin...."

"I miss him too, Sir....terribly. Every day I think about him and you and how much you meant to each other."

"I'm so sorry, Rob. Sorry that I was too wrapped up in my own grief to see that you needed comfort too." He chuffed in frustration at his own actions. "Fine way to treat my family." 

Finch stepped back, holding Jimson at arm's length; wanting her to see the necessity of his course of action.

"I must _try_ and get him back....do you understand that I have to?"

Jimson nodded, taking a deep breath and regarding him somberly. When the valet spoke again her tone was serious. 

"Of course you should....all I ask is that you plan; consider all possible options. If something happens to you, Lord Finch....God forbid you're injured or…" Rob broke off, pausing a moment before she was able to continue. 

"There would be no-one left who _could_ get Mr. Ingram back."

The valet's words were like cold water to his system; allowing him to hear them at last. 

_Dear God; she's right, Reese is right. I can't just jump back thirty-odd years at one blow. I'll never make it and Nathan will be stranded in the past forever._

"M'lord....please, tell Mr. Reese."

Finch started out of his reverie. "What?"

"Tell Jonathan, not everything of course but all that's relevant. You can't do this alone. Let him, let us help you... _please_."

Jimson held his gaze, her expression entreating him to agree. Finally Finch nodded.

"Alright Rob. Please ask Mr. Reese to join me in the study."

"Yes M'lord." The valet took a deep breath, the tension in her shoulders easing as the aristocrat acquiesced to Rob's suggestion. "And….thank you Lord Finch."

Harold's grimace was self-deprecating. "Indeed....for what, blowing up at you? Threatening to dismiss you?"

"For considering me family. I feel the same, M'lord." Jimson's admission was quiet, almost as if she felt unworthy of having such thoughts. 

Rob bowed formally to him before going in search of Reese. Harold's eyes took in the open wardrobe, the half-filled carpetbag and books that lay on the valet's bed. He was chagrined to realize how close he'd come to losing Jimson. Finch had always taken pride in his self-reliance; in the fact that he needed no-one’s assistance, in any facet of his life. Memories flashed in his mind.... _of trading the grandeur of his familial estate for a succession of flats throughout the West End...penning the original schematics for his time device...and of his first days in Plover House._

The aristocrat recalled with clarity his purchase of the residence most of his peers referred to as 'the pauper's shack'. None of them could fathom Finch's satisfaction with what was, in their eyes, such a small dwelling. The house was only slightly grander than its neighbors but his inaugural night in it left Harold feeling lonely for the first time in his life. 

In time Finch grew accustomed to the silence of the place; or at least more adept at sublimating his feelings of isolation. How life in Plover House had changed for him in the past seven years...a state of affairs due entirely to Jimson and to Nathan. _With Rob's help and perhaps that of Mr. Reese we now may be able to bring Nathan home....._

Jonathan Reese.....Harold realized how fortuitous it had been that he had not acted upon his growing feelings towards his employee. Reese was a valuable asset it was true; a capable and trustworthy partner for his work. The ex-soldier had proven himself time and again in the past eight months.... _but_....any furthering of interests between them on the aristocrat's part would not occur. _Not with Nathan's return a possibility. Mr. Reese deserves better and I want, need...._

Finch shook his head, pushing the twisted ball of longing and despair down into his gut. He could not afford distraction, not now. He had to concentrate on how to proceed...on explaining the situation to Reese, on making plans and acting on them accordingly. With newfound resolve Harold quit Jimson's rooms and made his way down to the study. Somehow, he would have to bring balance to this chaos.

**ticktockticktockticktockticktock**

 

NOTES: Alright so yep, holy shit Jimson’s female! I may lose some readers with that fact but my OC’s always have to have a twist and if I can ever finish ’Clockwork’, I may very well post Robin’s backstory with Denton Weeks and how the valet first meets Harold Finch (57 pages and counting, BTW....I had all these snippets of Rob’s family, how she came to be trained as a valet and Finch and Weeks’ very antagonistic business relationship. They wouldn’t let me continue writing ’Clockwork’ until I exorcised them and perhaps in the future they will see the light of day.)

On a related note I will state just how difficult it was to write eleven chapters of this story without once referring to Jimson with a personal pronoun (I did drop hints along the way though). I still can’t believe I pulled it off (the more formal language of the time period did help). I will continue to do this for most of the time, slipping in a she or her once in awhile if need be, because although Robin is a woman, that fact is not the crux of what Jimson‘s character is.

The next few chapters are going to include a boatload of angst, soul-searching, heroic sacrifice and some major hurt/comfort. If any of you are still willing to come along for the ride after this chapter, then I thank you in advance. As always, my heartfelt gratitude to those of you in the fandom who’ve read ‘Clockwork’ and any of my other stories. I appreciate each and every one of you!


End file.
